THE  ROAD 
THAT  LED  HOME 

A  Romance  of  Plow-Land 

With  some  passages  from  the  Lives 
of  Henry  Nicol,  Philosopher  of  Islay; 
Ernie  Bedford,  Pedagogue;  Jim  Dover,  of 
the  Everlasting  Thirst;  and  Sioux  Ben 
Sun  Cloud,  the  Scotch -talking  Indian; 
as  well  as  Others,  not  excluding  Charlie 
Tinker  of  the  Continuous  Speech  and  Ida 
Bethune  of  the  Pale-green  Smile; 
Jim  is  Dead 

BY 

WILL    E.  INGERSOLL 


HARPER  fcf  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND    LONDON 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 


Copyright,    1918,   by   Harper   &    Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  March,  1918 


TO 

ONE  FOR  WHOM  I  HAVE  BEEN  BY  TURNS  A 
LOCOMOTIVE,  A  DONKEY,  A  HARLEQUIN.  AN 
ENCYCLOPEDIA,  A  DOOR-MAT,  AND  A  LOAD 
OF  HAY;  TO  ONE  WHO  IS  NEVER  STILL  EXCEPT 
WHEN  ASLEEP,  AND  THEN  ONLY  PARTIALLY; 
AT  WHOSE  COMING  THE  CAT'S  HEART  SKIPS 
A  BEAT;  WHO  CONSIDERS  HAIR  WAS  MADE 
TO  LEAD  SLAVES  AROUND  BY.  AND  REGARDS 
EYES  AS  QUEER,  GLASSY.  APPEALING  THINGS 
THAT  WOULD  LOOK  BETTER  POKED  OUT;  WHO 
IS  A  FRIEND  AND  INTIMATE  OF  HIS  BROTHER 
CLAY  AND  A  SWORN  ENEMY  OF  THE  SPONGE 
AND  WASH-BASIN;  WHO  WEARS  OUT  A  PAIR 
OF  BOOTS  A  MONTH;  TO  WHOM  SPANKING 
MEANS  POSTPONEMENT;— 1  N  SHORT.  TO 
YOUNG  BILL.  WHO  WILL  CELEBRATE  HIS 
HUNDREDTH  BIRTHDAY  IN  2O15. 

THIS     BOOK 
IS     HUMBLY    DEDICATED 

BY 
HIS    DAD 


M27113 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

FOREWORD vii 

I.  ON  THE  ROAD i 

II.  JOHN  BEAMISH,  SCHOOL  TRUSTEE 10 

III.  HENRY  NICOL,  PHILOSOPHER  OF  ISLAY       ....  17 

IV.  OAKBURN 27 

V.  THE  ENGLISHMAN 32 

VI.  ON  THE  WAY  TO  ISLAY 50 

VII.  CLARA  MORTON  AT  HOME 68 

VIII.  THE  CANVASSERS 91 

IX.  A  REUNION 114 

X.  ISLAY  SCHOOL 133 

XI.  AN  EVENING  LESSON 152 

XII.  THE  NARROW  ESCAPE  OF  MATTHEW  RODGERS    .    .  160 

XIII.  His  MONEY'S  WORTH       169 

XIV.  TROUBLE 188 

XV.  HOMESTEAD  INSANITY        199 

XVI.  Sioux  BEN  INSPECTS  ISLAY  SCHOOL       217 

XVII.  THE  LAYING  AWAY  OF  JAMES  TANTALUS  DOVER     .  225 

XVIII.  AFTER  CHOIR  PRACTICE 245 

XIX.  THE  DEPOSING  OF  A  FARM  QUEEN 254 

XX.  THE  END  OF  A  LONG  HUNT 261 

XXI.  THE  INDIAN  EYE 270 

XXII.  THE  MOTOR  EXPLOIT  OF  JIMMY  LOCHINVAR  YOUNG  282 

XXIII.  GOOSEBERRY 295 


FOREWORD 

"Life's  like  one  o'  these  here  whatsisnames — you 
know  what  I  mean,  School-teacher  (if  I  had  went  in 
for  school-teachin'  instead  o1  farming  Td  know  too). 
The  more  you  own,  the  more  trouble  you  have  keeping 
track  of  it.  Get  a  good  job,  ari  stay  with  it — an1  don't 
let  on  you  can  milk.  If  you  do,  the  people  you're 
hired  with  will  make  you  help  milk  the  cows  in  the 
evening,  after  your  day's  work  is  supposed  to  be  did. 
They're  all  alike;  they'll  all  do  it.  This  is  a  rough  ol' 
world  we're  in,  with  a  blamed  aggravatin'  outfit  o' 
people  in  it.  If  I'd  'a'  killed  all  the  skunks  an'  scamps 
I've  felt  like  killin',  I'd  have  a  pile  o'  corpses  arount 
me  twenty  foot  high  by  now.  But  I've  held  in  an' 
took  it  easy;  an'  I'm  healthy  an'  happy,  with  a  fine 
ol'  appetite  an'  no  worries.  If  a  man's  got  anything 
ag'in'  me,  I  find  out  what  it  is.  If  he's  a-scared  o' 
me,  I  shove  my  fist  under  his  nose  an1  shut  him  up. 
If  I'm  a-scared  o1  him,  I  ast  him  to  have  a  drink. 
I'm  fifty-six  years  old,  an'  I  was  never  late  for  dinner 
in  my  life." — MEDITATIONS  OF  HENRY  AURELIUS 
NICOL. 


THE   ROAD   THAT 
LED  HOME 


THE  ROAD  THAT 
LED  HOME 


ON   THE   ROAD 

I  SLAY!  ISLAY!  There  was  a  raw,  red,  rebel 
lious  suggestiveness  about  even  the  name.  Ernie 
Bedford  felt  glad  he  was  within  an  inch  and  a  half 
of  the  heroic  six  feet.  He  thanked  the  ten  years  at 
the  pitchfork  and  plow  that  had  prepared  him 
physically,  as  Pestalozzi  el  al.  had  technically,  for 
pedagogy.  Even  the  jaunty  iron  beat  of  the  rail- 
joints  beneath  the  passenger-car  could  not  lilt  him 
into  a  care-free  attitude  toward  a  first  school  with 
a  name  like  that,  and  a  reputation  such  as  the  laconic 
letter  in  his  lap  gave  it. 

The  prairie  that  fled  by  his  window  like  a  broad, 
green,  wind-ruffled  river-face  gliding  past  a  pier  was 
very  winning;  but,  in  spite  of  his  natural  leaning 
away  from  fist  and  toward  fancy,  Ernie  turned  from 
grass  and  grove  and  sun.  He  batted  an  eyelid 
challengingly,  spat  lightly  in  his  palm,  and  picked 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

up 'again  from  the  vacant  red-plush  seat,  where  his 
feet  rested,  the  letter  of  Mr.  Kernaghan,  secretary- 
treasurer  of  Islay  School  District  No.  634. 

"They  need  trimming,  not  now  and  then  nor  yet 
quite  often,  but  all  the  time,"  Mr.  Kernaghan  (evi 
dently  a  psychologist  of  the  good  old  corporeal 
school)  advised.  ' '  Now  the  last  fellow  we  got  he  was 
a  smart  lad  like,  but  his  idea  of  school-teaching  was 
to  spark  his  big  gal  scholars.  You  couldn't  blame 
the  boy,  but  what  we  paid  him  for  was  educating. 
We  could  have  got  a  man  for  nothing  to  court  the 
girls.  Your  wages  will  be  forty-five  dollars  a 
month." 

Ernie  looked  from  the  letter  to  the  round,  healthy 
wrists  that  filled  his  shirt-cuffs.  He  held  up  a  fist 
and  flexed  it;  threw  back  the  big  shoulders  that 
strained  his  first  tailor-built  coat;  blew  a  dangling 
hair  briskly  out  of  his  eye.  Then,  squared  on  the 
cushion,  with  the  seat-back  before  him  as  a  screen 
and  his  faculty  of  fancy  as  a  cinematograph,  he  en 
tertained  himself  in  a  grim  way  with  the  projection 
of  moving  pictures  of  the  mind.  Each  represented 
some  stage  of  the  course  of  discipline  in  Islay. 

Not  because  he  had  seen  anything  especially  at 
tractive  in  pedagogy  as  a  career,  but  merely  because 
he  had  stayed  at  school  to  keep  in  touch  with  those 
makers  of  books  toward  whom  he  had  been  drawn 
through  exercises  in  composition  and  English,  Ernie 
had  found  himself,  after  failing  in  algebra  twice,  at 
length  in  possession  of  a  teacher's  certificate  some 
eleven  inches  wide.  In  point  of  permanent  value,  it 
seemed  hardly  worth  the  brain-sweat  it  had  cost; 

2 


ON  THE  ROAD 

for  after  three  years  it  would  be  good  for  nothing 
except  to  help  light  the  kitchen  fire.  But  in  size 
and  lettering  it  was  an  imposing  document,  which 
Samuel  Bedford,  a  sandy,  coercive  man  who  saw 
no  use  in  giving  free  board  any  longer  to  a  son  who 
took  not  the  slightest  interest  in  agriculture,  thought 
might  as  well  be  used  as  not.  That  was  how  Ernie, 
after  a  six-months'  course  in  the  training-school, 
came  to  be  on  the  way  to  Islay. 

The  equable  May  day  and  the  almost  empty  pas 
senger-car  were  conducive  to  thought  without  inter 
ruption  ;  and  several  stations  had  been  passed  unre 
garded  when  Ernie  became  aware  that  the  conductor 
had  stopped  opposite  him  and  was  gazing  with  more 
than  ordinary  interest  at  the  check  in  his  hat-band. 

"Why  is  it,"  he  cooed,  in  tranquil  interrogation, 
as  Ernie  looked  up,  "that  you  are  with  us  still, 
young  fellow?" 

"Me?  Oh,  I  get  off  at  Oakburn!"  Ernie's  reply 
was  absent  and  pensive. 

"Well,"  rejoined  the  conductor,  taking  off  his 
cap,  rubbing  its  metal  embellishment  to  a  transitory 
brightness  with  his  sleeve,  and  replacing  the  article 
on  his  head,  "no  one  would  ever  guess  you  was  bound 
for  Oakburn,  to  look  at  you  now.  That  was  Oak- 
burn  station  we  just  pulled  out  of." 

Ernie  leaped  up  and  grabbed  his  suit-case. 

"Oh,  don't  bother  to  get  up,"  said  the  conductor, 
placidly.  "We  won't  reach  Russell,  the  next  station, 
for  twenty  minutes  yet.  I'll  collect  the  fifty  cents 
extra  the  next  time  I  pass  through  the  car.  Remind 
me  of  it,  if  I  forget." 

3 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

With  this  remark  and  a  meditative  clicking 
of  his  ticket-punch,  the  speaker  passed  on  his 
way  down  the  aisle.  As  the  .swinging  door  at  the 
end  of  the  coach  closed  behind  him,  Ernie  pushed 
up  the  tight,  smoky  car  window,  thrust  his  head 
out,  and  looked  back.  Oakburn's  red  elevators 
were  already  a  good  half-mile  away  and  receding 
rapidly. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  buckboard,  with  its  single  oc 
cupant,  jogging  slowly  toward  the  village  along  the 
prairie  trail,  that  here  looped  close  to  the  railway 
track,  which  suggested  the  action  Ernie  took  then. 
After  a  hesitation  of  barely  a  moment  he  picked 
up  his  grip  again,  more  softly  and  cautiously  this 
time.  He  slipped  quickly  and  quietly  along  the 
passageway  between  his  few  and  drowsing  fellow- 
passengers,  pushed  out  through  the  door  of  the 
coach,  and  descended  the  steps. 

"Hey,  there!"  yelled  the  conductor,  coming 
back  through  the  door  of  the  next  car.  But  the  hail 
found  Ernie  in  mid-air,  whither  he  had  launched  him 
self  with  a  jump  made  in  the  direction  the  car  was 
going.  The  express,  though  climbing  a  grade,  was 
running  at  a  good  rate  of  speed;  and  the  teacher, 
after  one  instant  of  breathless  soaring,  felt  the  earth 
come  up  and  deal  him  such  a  grassy  bang  as  misted 
his  vision  for  a  second  or  two.  There  seemed  a  good 
deal  of  Scotch  thistle  where  he  had  landed;  but 
Ernie  had  presence  of  mind  to  sit  up  blinking  and 
wave  his  hand  gaily  at  the  conductor,  who  leaned 
out  and  shook  a  farewell  fist  at  him  from  between 
the  coaches.  Then  he  looked  around  for  the  buck- 

4 


ON  THE  ROAD 

board  he  had  noticed  when  he  glanced  out  through 
the  car  window. 

It  was  there  before  him,  just  rounding  the  trail 
loop,  the  pony  slowed  to  a  walk,  and  the  driver,  a 
girl,  looking  in  his  direction  with  a  good  deal  of 
interest. 

"Hi,  there!"  he  yelled,  with  boyish  brusqueness. 
"Can  you  give  us  a  lift!" 

The  little  Indian  pony,  answering  with  the  alacrity 
of  his  species  a  sweet-toned  "Whoa!"  dropped  his 
head  and  commenced  to  nibble  at  the  roadside  grass. 
Ernie,  a  little  red  and  tumbled,  jogged  across  the 
weedy  right-of-way. 

"I  just  forgot  my  station,"  he  explained,  a  little 
sheepishly,  in  response  to  the  girl's  wide-eyed  look, 
"and  I  had  to  jump  for  it  or  walk  all  the  way  back 
from  the  next  place  up  the  line.  Do  you  mind  if 
I  ride  back  into  Oakburn  with  you?" 

Two  things  Ernie  was  prepared  for.  In  the  first 
place,  he  knew  that  the  innate  hospitality  of  country 
people  assured  him  of  his  "lift."  Secondly,  he  al 
most  knew  that  he  would  be  admitted  into  the  rig 
with  an  awkward,  prim  drawing  aside  of  his  con 
ductress,  and  that  conversation  during  the  drive 
would  be  limited  to  replies  in  a  formal  party  falsetto 
to  whatever  remarks  he  might  be  inclined  to  make 
as  feelers  toward  sociability. 

There  had  been  a  time  when  Ernie,  country-born 
himself,  had  no  awareness  of  country  mannerisms. 
His  six  months  in  the  city,  however,  had  given  him 
an  opportunity  to  contrast  the  country-girl  students 
at  the  training-school  with  their  sisters  of  the  avenue 
2  5 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

and  boulevard.  Young  Bedford  was  in  that  pur 
blind  age  of  man  when  smartness  of  dress  can  hide 
poverty  of  looks,  and  smartness  of  speech  can  ef 
fectually  conceal  feminine  poverty  of  ideas  (some 
men  never  pass  this  age!).  He  had  returned  into 
the  country  with  all  the  flavor,  as  he  thought,  gone 
out  of  his  mind  for  even  the  most  appealing  round 
ness  and  rosiness  housed  in  a  home-made  dress. 

"You  are  quite  welcome,"  said  the  girl,  simply, 
as  she  turned  the  pony  to  move  the  front  wheel  out 
of  the  way  of  the  iron  step.  The  manner  of  speak 
ing  was  rurally  typical;  but  there  was  something 
in  the  tone  that  made  Ernie,  as  he  settled  himself  on 
the  rain-grayed  cushions  and  stuck  his  suit-case 
between  his  shins,  glance  out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye  at  the  speaker. 

There  was  no  flush  of  awkwardness  on  the  face 
that  was  turned  his  way,  with  its  hospitable,  mother 
ly,  unabashed  gray  eyes.  If  either  of  the  two  felt 
awkward,  it  was  Ernie,  as  he  met  that  look,  with  its 
calm  maturity  of  gentle  appraisal.  Yet  the  girl  was 
not  mature  in  years.  For  all  the  serene  and  sweet 
maternal  quality  of  her  expression,  the  teacher  sur 
mised  safely  that  no  more  than  seventeen  twelve 
months  at  most  had  gone  to  the  shaping  of  the  egg- 
tip  of  chin,  the  curving  fresh  red  of  the  lips,  and  the 
round,  girlish  nose  with  its  pin-points  of  freckles 
crossing  the  bridge. 

He  continued  to  watch  with  considerably  more 
interest  than  he  would  have  owned  to  if  somebody 
had  asked  him  his  opinion  of  his  companion,  while 
a  capable  small  hand  came  up  and  shook  the  reins 

6 


ON  THE  ROAD 

in  brisk  admonishment  over  the  back  of  the  pony, 
starting  that  animal,  after  a  moment,  into  an  infinitely 
leisurely  jog-trot.  There  was  such  self-reliance,  such 
odd,  ripe  initiative,  in  the  girl's  attitude  and  move 
ments,  that  Ernie  presently  found  himself  faced 
with  the  idea — and  oddly  piqued  by  it,  too,  in  spite 
of  what  he  had  thought  his  settled  aloofness  toward 
country  girls — that  this  naive  and  competent  little 
presence  by  his  side  might  be  no  daughter-at-home, 
but  some  young  homesteader's  wife  of  perhaps  a 
year.  This  notion  was  put  aside,  however,  after  a 
glance  toward  the  still  unbanded  "ring  finger." 

"Do  you  know  a  school  called  Islay  around  here?" 
he  asked,  boy-like,  leaning  his  elbows  on  his  knees 
and  setting  his  hat  to  the  back  of  his  head. 

"Islay?"  The  girl  looked  around  with  her  bright 
heed.  "Why,  yes!  That's  our  school!" 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Ernie,  widening  his  eyes  and 
feeling  some  odd  sprite  within  begin  to  dance  with 
moderate  gaiety.  "Is  that  so,  then?  I'm  going 
out  to  teach  there." 

"We-ell,  now!"  The  interjection  and  its  intona 
tion  were  countrified  beyond  all  mitigation ;  but  that 
deliciously  spontaneous,  that  home-like,  that  wel 
coming  smile.  "Father's  one  of  the  trustees  of  Islay 
school." 

"Do  you  go  to  school,  yourself?"  Ernie  queried, 
finding  himself,  as  he  waited  for  the  answer,  think 
ing  with  a  certain  sympathy  of  the  fellow-teacher 
who  had  been  dismissed  for  not  being  impersonal 
enough  with  his  "big  gal  scholars." 

"No."  Something  sad  and  old  appeared  in  the 

7 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

warm,  gray  eyes,  to  be  swept  away,  however,  almost 
instantly  by  an  intrepid  and  gay  little  flash  of  the 
lids.  "I  am  through  with  school,  I  guess." 

Ernie,  even  through  the  brisk  obtuseness  of  youth, 
saw  that  this  was  a  subject  not  to  be  pursued  further, 
for  some  reason,  so  he  let  it  drop. 

"My name's  Bedford,"he  said,  presently.  "What's 
yours?" 

"I'm  Clara  Morton,"  came  the  quiet  answer,  with 
the  lips  opening  bud-like  in  that  sweet  smile  at  which 
Ernie,  for  the  second  or  third  time,  felt  a  kind  of 
titillation  ripple  over  all  his  nerves — the  zestful 
nerves  of  his  keen  young  manhood,  matured  cleanly 
and  healthily  in  the  blue-and-green  summers  of  the 
West.  The  effect  of  the  smile,  in  fact,  was  so  potent 
that  it  hushed  him,  humbled  him,  made  him  draw 
away  his  eyes. 

Girlish  seventeen  has  its  piquance — the  half -fleshly 
piquance  of  round  curves,  soft  edgings,  apple-bloom ; 
but  young-womanly  seventeen  has  something  more. 
It  has  power — power! 

Ernie,  looking  down  at  the  trail-rut,  ribboning 
away  as  it  were  from  the  slow-spinning  spool  of  the 
wheel,  felt  ineffably  satisfied  that  the  somnolent 
shaganappy  between  the  buckboard  shafts  was 
traveling  no  faster  than  about  three  miles  an  hour. 
Even  the  questions  he  had  intended  to  put  about 
Islay  and  its  turbulent  undergraduates  remained 
for  the  moment  unasked. 

The  breeze  blew  softly  from  the  opposite  side  of 
the  road,  so  that  he  was  in  the  lee  of  his  companion 
and  received  in  his  nostrils,  on  that  soft -flowing 

8 


ON  THE  ROAD 

aeolian  tide,  the  blended  aroma  of  girlhood  and  of 
flowerland;  of  lily  exhalation  and  girl  breath;  of 
rain-freshened  roses  and  feminine  clothing  dried  on 
some  wind-whipped  clothes-line  of  a  country  wash 
day. 

By  common  consent,  that  rare  kind  of  silence  that 
is  more  fruitful  than  speech  rested  and  reigned  be 
tween  the  two  young  people.  Mere  proximity,  in  its 
wonderful,  wordless,  wireless  way,  telegraphed  the 
messages,  shuttling  back  and  forth  between  them, 
by  which  their  sympathy  and  their  intimacy  grew 
with  the  passing  of  each  tranquil-traveled  furlong 
of  the  prairie  way. 

All  too  soon  they  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill 
down  which  the  road  led  by  culvert  and  by  creek 
into  Oakburn  of  Wheat-land. 


II 

JOHN    BEAMISH,    SCHOOL  TRUSTEE 

HE  stood  at  the  corner  of  his  field;   above  him 
the  May  day,  blue  as  a  robin's  egg;  at  the  end 
of  the  black  fallow,  seeming  to  meet  it,  a  sunny  alp 
of  clouds. 

He  was  a  subject  of  a  great  dominion  and  a  builder 
of  cities.  Yet  was  he  not  featured  nor  thewed  in 
any  way  that  gave  any  sense  or  suggestion  of  the 
knightly  or  the  heroic.  Nothing  in  him  bespoke  the 
achiever. 

A  man,  plain,  sane,  commonplace.  A  set,  square, 
full-fleshed,  coarse-mustached  bullock  of  a  man 
about  forty-eight,  with  that  monotonous  neutral 
dinginess  of  skin  that  comes  with  middle  age.  If  the 
mustache  that  flowed,  or  rather  rolled,  over  his  lip 
and  down  to  the  corners  of  his  broad,  blunt  chin  had 
been  shaved  away,  it  would  have  shown  a  great 
mouth  with  lips  of  dull-red  tissue,  munching  phleg- 
matically. 

This  man  had  passed  into  the  Age  of  the  Ox,  which, 
in  the  Seven  Ages  of  the  Farmer,  corresponds  most 
nearly  to  that  of  the  judge  with  the  fair,  round  some 
thing  or  other  with  good  capon  lined. 

10 


JOHN  BEAMISH,  SCHOOL   TRUSTEE 

But  John  Beamish  still  had  an  image.  Every 
man  who  is  not  dead  or  doting  must  be  able  on 
occasion  to  shut  his  eyes  and  see  a  picture  of  what 
he  will  be  in  some  future,  if  nothing  gangs  agley — • 
a  picture  of  what  he  has  planned  to  be  "if  all  goes 
right."  Fifteen  years  ago  John  Beamish's  image 
might  have  been  something  to  write  about.  It  was 
yet,  indeed,  and  might  even  be  put  into  the  poetry 
of  his  circle,  thus,  "The  dollar,  the  dollar,  I  f oiler, 
I  foller." 

The  man  who  is  in  love  with  farming  never  makes 
any  money.  It  is  the  man  who  hates  it  that  suc 
ceeds  and  becomes  a  city-builder  and  an  empire- 
builder.  That  is  not  so  with  every  calling,  but  it  is 
with  farming.  You  will  find  in  the  country  old 
bachelors  who  tilt  their  whiskers  ecstatically  in  the 
breeze,  wink  cordially  at  the  sun,  and  sing  behind  the 
plow.  But  you  will  see  they  are  poor — poor  as  the 
mice  who  hunt  for  cheese  in  a  church.  Poor  and 
happy. 

Their  stables  are  roofed  with  straw.  The  ma 
chinery  they  have  paid  two  prices  for,  or  will  have 
paid  two  prices  for  when  some  day  (not  yet,  but 
perhaps  soon)  the  last  of  the  notes  is  met,  is  blithely 
rotting  and  rusting  in  the  prairie  air  which  is  so  good 
for  consumptives,  but  so  bad  for  binders.  Their 
cattle  are  thin,  and  the  mosquitoes  can  without  diffi 
culty  choose  any  location  on  the  old  farm-horses, 
nose  their  way  through  the  scraggy  hair,  and  bite 
to  the  bone. 

But  who  cares?  There  is  a  smack  to  the  ham 
that  is  eaten  off  the  bottom  of  the  plate  (because  the 

ii 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

other  side  has  not  been  washed,  and  cannot  now  be 
washed  without  the  aid  of  dynamite).  There  is  a 
relish  to  the  egg  that  the  old  white  hen  laid  in  the 
pile  of  overalls  under  the  bed.  There  is  a  song  in 
the  morning  wind  that  is  whipping  most  of  the  wheat 
out  of  the  ripe  heads  that  should  have  been  in  the 
stook  yesterday,  but  were  left  over  till  "I  settled 
that  darned  ol'  Grit,  who  says  this  isn't  a  progressive 
government." 

These  Old  King  Coles  will  live  into  their  nineties, 
carol  in  the  faces  of  their  creditors,  and  bequeath  the 
mortgage,  with  accrued  interest  thereon,  to  whoever 
is  yearning  for  the  saddle  and  the  snaffle-bit  of  eight 
per  cent. 

Perhaps,  over  the  road  allowance,  there  will  be  a 
big,  white,  ill-built  house  with  showy  pickets.  Out 
through  the  gate,  and  down  between  great  stretches 
of  beautiful  stubble-land  barred  with  ribbons  of 
black,  at  each  of  which  is  a  hired  man  and  a  plow, 
will  come  a  cold-eyed  man  in  an  automobile. 

The  wind  walks  over  the  ponds  to  him,  and  he 
scowls  as  he  loses  his  hat.  Recovering  it,  he  glances 
at  the  clouds  that  are  drawing  their  beautiful  white 
wool  intermittently  over  the  face  of  the  sun.  But  it 
is  not  their  wind-shapen  beauty,  the  excellent  light 
that  plays  along  their  silver  margins,  the  splendid 
floating  of  old  Sol  among  their  surges,  that  draws  his 
glance. 

He  is  looking  to  see  if  they  are  coming  up  against 
the  wind.  If  they  are  it  means  rain,  and  "all  them 
men  will  be  laid  off,  idle"  (i.  e.y  set  briskly  at  grinding 
mower-knives  in  the  granary  or  mending  harness). 

12 


JOHN  BEAMISH,  SCHOOL  TRUSTEE 

He  reaches  his  line  fence,  glides  out  into  the  road 
allowance,  and,  running  smoothly  along  the  good 
grade  that  he  has  insured  near  his  premises  by  mak 
ing  a  little  municipal  corner  in  statute  labor,  he  sees 
his  land,  acre  by  acre,  unroll  itself  for  his  inspection. 
Beyond,  his  cattle  are  pastured,  grazing  on  the  old 
hills  thus  saved  from  the  plow.  But,  as  he  looks 
afar  and  afar  at  the  wheat-fields  billowing  in  won 
drous  analogy  to  a  sea,  at  the  whipped  yellow  cream 
of  the  oat -fields,  at  the  green  span  of  the  road 
allowance  where  the  grass  between  fence  and  road 
is  zigzagged  and  braided  into  shadow  patterns  by 
the  merry  wind,  he  is  not  uplifted  by  any  sense  of 
the  romance  of  corn  and  kine. 

He  is  uplifted  by  the  thought  of  that  crop  con 
verted  into  grain  checks.  He  does  not  follow  agri 
culture  in  the  spirit  that  made  the  share  and  the 
coulter,  the  hake  and  the  beam,  the  implements  with 
which  the  splendid  yeomen  of  old  empires  spent 
blithely  the  time  between  war  and  war.  He  loves 
this  goose  of  agriculture  for  the  eggs  it  lays. 

He  will  not  know  what  to  do  with  his  money  when 
he  gets  it.  He  will  be  as  " close"  (perhaps  a  little 
"closer")  with  his  bank  account  at  six  figures  as 
he  was  when  it  lingered  at  three.  He  may  haggle 
with  a  dealer  for  an  automobile;  but  it  will  only  be 
because  "everybody's  a-buyin'  'em  now."  He  may 
go  into  the  city  to  attend  the  fair  there,  or  some 
fraternal  convention;  but  he  will  not  stay  at  the 
hotels  he  could  well  afford.  He  will  tease  his  healthy 
country  stomach  with  the  "cuisine"  of  a  dollar-a- 
day  hotel.  He  will  not  go  to  the  theaters.  He  will 

13 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

go  for  little,  cheap,  self-conscious,  uncomfortable 
walks  along  the  dusty  streets;  and,  finally,  will  be 
glad  to  ' '  get  away  home, ' '  not  because  he  is  attached 
to  the  farm,  but  because  he  is  too  old  and  "set  in 
his  ways"  to  make  ties  elsewhere  and  is  cornered 
there. 

John  Beamish  was  in  a  fair  way  to  attain  six 
figures;  and  the  thought  was  in  his  mind  now  as 
he  leaned  his  shirt-sleeves  on  the  fence,  moved  the 
tobacco  in  his  mouth,  and  spat  in  the  grass.  Six 
men  were  at  work  before  him.  He  had  assured  him 
self  that  those  six  men  were  really  and  zealously  at 
work  by  a  simple  system  of  espionage  which  con 
sisted  in  taking  a  claw-hammer  in  his  hand  and 
looking  for  loose  staples  in  the  fences  that  ran 
around  his  farm. 

He  had  not  yet  bought  an  automobile.  ''Next 
year,  maybe,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  tipped  his 
hat  with  the  hammer-handle  at  a  neighbor  who 
passed  at  that  moment  in  one  of  the  things,  sitting 
very  straight  and  holding  his  steering-wheel  very 
tightly,  as  though  it  were  the  reins  of  his  "broncos." 
Next  year,  maybe.  To  make  an  investment  of  that 
kind  was  one  of  the  things  which  grew  harder  to 
do  the  longer  one  thought  of  it.  It  ought  to  have 
been  done  with  a  run  and  a  jump. 

John  Beamish  gave  a  couple  of  absent  and  un 
necessary  taps  at  the  last  staple  next  the  gate,  and 
an  intent  and  necessary  look  at  Jim  Dover,  who  had 
spent  twenty  defiant  minutes  lighting  his  pipe,  sit 
ting  the  while  on  his  plow-handles  at  the  end  of  a 
furrow. 

14 


JOHN  BEAMISH,  SCHOOL  TRUSTEE 

"He's  going  to  quit  me,"  said  the  farmer,  as  he 
brushed  a  fly  from  his  ear.  "I  know  the  signs. 
Then  he'll  trail  off  into  Oakburn  and  get  pickled. 
He'll  spend  all  his  money  and  be  back  wantin'  his 
job  again  Saturday.  What's  men  like  them  made 
for,  annieways?" 

He  slipped  the  hammer  into  his  pocket,  head  down. 
Everything  goes  into  a  farmer's  hip  pocket.  He 
must  pick  three  or  four  wire-nails  of  varying  sizes 
out  of  his  tobacco-plug  each  time  he  extracts  it 
from  this  hold-all  of  a  pocket  to  cut  himself  a  fresh 
"chew." 

"Hey,  Jim!"  John  called  to  the  nonchalant  plow 
man,  as  he  passed,  "  come  on  up  to  th'  house  when 
you  finish  this  corner  o'  land,  an'  get  your  time." 

Jim  Dover  answered  by  putting  his  felt  hat  well 
to  the  side  of  his  head,  teetering  his  shoulders  a  little, 
and  starting  his  plow  down  the  furrow. 

The  farmer  went  on  up  the  road  to  the  house. 
His  solid  body  and  sturdy  shoulders  moved  evenly 
as  his  feet  lifted  and  set  in  a  sort  of  heavy  trudging. 
John  Beamish  was  a  picture  of  stolid  prosperity. 

But  something — perhaps  it  was  that  prim,  some 
what  uncomfortable,  none  the  less  self-satisfied 
neighbor  who  had  just  crowed  a  "good  day"  at  him 
from  behind  the  windshield  of  the  new  automobile 
— had  set  him  thinking,  had  planted  a  little  seed  of 
discontent. 

Always  the  way,  that.  One  has  his  affairs  in  clock 
work  shape:  good  men  safely  hired  for  the  season, 
under  contract,  at  bad  wages;  crop  put  in;  strych 
nine  banquets  spread  for  the  gophers  on  all  the 

IS 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

hilly  fields;  a  muscular  Galician  domestic  for  his 
kitchen,  with  a  sweetheart  no  more  troublesomely 
near  than  southern  Austria;  summer  fallow  well 
under  way,  ten  acres  ahead  of  any  other  farmer  in 
the  settlement;  one  has  everything  in  order  and 
up  to  date,  stops  to  draw  a  breath  of  relief,  and  has 
the  inhalation  only  half-fetched  when  something 
happens  to  open  up  a  new  little  avenue  of  worry. 

It  cannot  be  meant  that  a  man,  even  with  nearly 
six  figures  in  the  bank,  should  be  able  even  for  the 
space  of  one  pipe  to  sit  down  with  his  thumbs  under 
his  braces  and  beam  with  absolute  comfort  upon 
his  property  and  the  world. 

That  automobile  had  made  John  Beamish  think 
he  would  like  to  know  of  some  way  whereby  he  could 
in  a  single  year  increase  his  bank  account  by  the 
space  of  about  four  seasons'  profits,  and  thus  attain 
in  two  jumps  the  six  figures  beyond  which  he  (as  he 
would  have  put  it)  "  thought  possibly  he  might  be 
able  to  see  his  way  clear,  in  spite  o'  hard  times,"  to 
negotiate  for  some  fashionable  and  inexpensive  form 
of  horseless  going. 


Ill 

HENRY   NICOL,    PHILOSOPHER   OF   ISLAY 

HENRY  NICOL  drove  carelessly  along  the  trail 
on  his  way  to  Oakburn.  His  commissions  in 
Oakburn  were  two — to  get  a  plowshare  sharpened, 
and  to  bring  out  the  new  Islay  school-teacher.  He 
liked  driving  along  the  trail,  for  it  was  an  easy  way 
of  putting  in  his  day. 

Henry  was  now  fifty,  and  was,  as  he  had  always 
been,  a  hired  man  on  a  farm.  He  preferred  having 
life  a  plain  to  making  it  a  hill.  The  world  had  long 
ago  shown  him  what  he  was  worth  to  it,  in  dollars 
per  month;  and  if  some  one  had  asked  Henry  why 
he  had  never  tried  to  save  up  and  buy  a  farm  of  his 
own,  he  would  have  pointed  out  that  it  was  better 
to  do  a  day's  work  for  sure  pay  than  to  work  hard 
all  summer  and  have  your  crop  "hailed  out"  or 
"froze  on  you"  at  the  end  of  the  season. 

In  a  word,  as  those  who  talk  glibly  about  ladder- 
tops  or  the  summit  of  Parnassus  would  have  put  it, 
Henry  was  fatally  contented. 

The  day  was  warm,  the  big  team  moved  their  feet 
along  drowsily  in  the  dust ;  and  Henry,  on  the  wagon- 
seat,  his  pipe  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth  and  his  feet 

17 


THE^ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

spread  apart  on  the  foreboard,  dozed  and  nodded 
until  his  head  found  a  resting-place  between  the  two 
large  and  hairy  hands  that  loosely  held  the  driving- 
reins. 

From  a  gate  at  the  side  of  the  road  a  square- 
built,  quiet  man,  his  feet  planted  firmly  and  his 
hands  thrust  into  the  pockets  of  his  overalls,  watched 
the  wagon  as  it  came  on.  Whether  it  was  that  he 
stood  so  still  or  that  he  looked  so  steadily,  there 
was  something  of  morose  dignity  about  the  man — 
something  that  made  Henry  Nicol,  after  the  first 
sleepy  glance  of  recognition,  straighten  in  his  seat 
and  assume  an  attitude  respectful  and  propitiatory 
— the  attitude  of  the  man  toward  the  master. 

"'Day,  Adam."  Henry,  as  he  gave  the  free 
salute  of  the  surnameless  West,  conveyed  his  respect 
by  intoning  thejgreeting  in  a  kind  of  social  falsetto. 
"It's  fine  harvest  weather,  hey?" 

"Aye,"  said  Adam  Morton,  as  he  stood  like  a  rock 
by  the  roadside,  moving  nothing  but  his  eyes. 

"Whoa,  Mike!"  As  a  concession  to  the  dignity 
of  Pat,  the  old  sorrel,  Henry  always  spoke  to  the 
colt  when  he  issued  directions  to  his  team.  "Whoa, 
boy!" 

The  old  horse  stopped  staidly;  Mike,  the  freshly 
broken,  came  to  an  impatient  halt,  thrusting  at  his 
bit  with  his  tongue,  moving  his  feet,  and  lashing  his 
tail  about.  Henry  took  off  his  hat,  scratched  the 
back  of  his  head,  replaced  the  hat,  and  looked  at 
Adam. 

"Old  Harry  Nicol,"  said  the  farmer,  nodding  his 
head  a  little  in  reflection;  "old  Harry  Nicol!"  He 

18 


HENRY  NICOL,  PHILOSOPHER 

never  halted  a  man  by  his  gate  without  an  object; 
but  his  point  was  approached  in  a  desultory  and 
dallying  way,  and  was  never  apparent  from  his  first 
interjection. 

Henry  was  used  to  Adam's  way,  so  he  merely  re 
sponded,  yawning  a  little  nervously,  " That's  me, 
Adam — that's  me." 

" Harry,"  Adam  came  over  to  the  side  of  the 
wagon,  rested  his  arm  on  the  tire  of  the  wheel,  and 
smiled — a  queer,  bleak  smile  that  merely  moved  his 
mouth  and  was  accompanied  by  a  kind  of  gleam  in 
his  eyes,  "  Harry,  where  is  the  new  school-teacher 
to  board?" 

" Board?"  repeated  Henry,  in  the  involuntary 
sharp  tone  of  one  in  possession  of  information  some 
one  else  wants.  " Board?  Why,  he'll  board  at 
Kernaghan's — Tom's.  They've  got  th'  spare  room 
ready." 

Adam  drew  his  arm  from  the  tire  and  turned  half 
away.  "Ye've  not  heard  what  like  of  a  fellow  he 
is,  Henry?" 

Henry  Nicol  rubbed  his  head,  looking  thoughtful. 
"Well,"  he  said,  presently,  "I  seen  th'  letter  he 
wrote  Tom,  askin'  for  the  job.  Th'  handwritin' 
looks  kind  o'  young.  Not  but  what  it's  a  hull  lot 
better  than  what  I  could  do,  Adam." 

Adam  Morton  pursed  his  lips  a  little,  pushed  his 
hands  into  his  pockets,  and  stepped  away.  "Good 
day,  Harry,"  he  said,  over  his  shoulder,  as  he  reached 
the  gate.  He  lifted  a  bar  and  passed  through,  taking 
his  way,  waist-deep  in  "silverberry"  bushes,  across 
the  pasture  where  his  cattle  browsed. 

19 


s 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Henry  Nicol  chirped  mildly  at  Pat  and  Mike,  who, 
with  a  rumble  of  big  wheels,  a  clank  of  harness-rings 
and  a  chatter  of  hoofs,  broke  into  their  swinging 
walk. 

The  road  down  which  the  wagon  went  had  the 
pleasant  aspect  and  scent  of  high  summer.  The  dis 
tance  to  town  was  ten  miles — ten  leisurely  miles,  for 
Henry  obeyed  to  the  letter  Tom's  (Mr.  Kernaghan's) 
instructions  not  to  drive  the  big  team  hard.  For 
the  first  three  of  these  miles,  the  trail  looped  to  left 
or  right  in  fenceless  and  gradeless  freedom,  avoiding 
sloughs  or  groves  or  stretches  of  alkali  by  the  easy 
method  of  going  around  them;  but  Henry  was  now 
in  the  fourth  mile,  where  the  sections  were  well  filled, 
and  where  fences  of  poles  or  barb-wire  had  forced 
traffic  to  the  " King's  highway." 

The  cultivated  lands  came  close  to  the  fences, 
within  bare  binder- width  of  the  wire;  and  Henry 
Nicol,  with  the  sure  and  shrewd  eye  of  the  old  farm 
hand,  appraised  the  diligence  or  thrift  of  each  fanner 
by  the  invariable  index  of  crop  and  fence. 

Where  the  land-roller  had  been  used  and  the  har 
rowing  done  thoroughly,  the  ripening  had  been  uni 
form,  and  there  was  presented  toward  the  road  a 
clean  and  beautiful  pattern  of  drilled  green  lines 
running  over  the  black  fallow  straight  as  the  ruling 
on  a  book;  the  fence  alongside  being  usually  trim 
and  well  kept,  with  taut  wire  and  good  cedar  posts. 

Bad  farming  was  no  less  apparent;  and  there 
were  not  a  few  stretches  where  unsown  strips  showed 
that  the  seed-drill  had  been  driven  carelessly  awry, 
and  where  sprouting  weeds  told  of  careless  harrowing 

20 


HENRY  NICOL,  PHILOSOPHER 

and  plowing  of  the  variety  known  as  "cut  and 
cover."  Here  again  the  fences  were  in  keeping — 
wires  down,  posts  loosely  set  and  tilted  at  rickety 
angles  or  broken  off  short;  and  the  farm-yards  were 
a  litter  of  logs,  of  machinery  standing  out  in  the 
weather,  of  barking  mongrels  and  straw-roofed 
granaries. 

Along  the  road  allowance,- before  one  of  the  most 
slovenly  of  these  latter  farms,  a  tall  girl  stood  list 
lessly,  her  heel  on  a  slack  strand  of  barb-wire  and 
a  book  under  her  arm ;  and  Henry  Nicol,  even  as  he 
brought  his  finger  gallantly  to  the  brim  of  his  hat, 
soliloquized  in  an  undertone: 

"That  there  Ida  Bethune  will  be  elopin*  some 
day,  when  some  feller  with  the  notion  for  it  comes 
along.  She's  gettin'  a  big  girl  now.  Who  will  Mis' 
Bethune  get  to  milk  them  ten  cows  then,  I  wonder, 
and  keep  the  hens  from  settin'  in  the  bushes?  Ol' 
George  spends  most  of  his  time  in  Oakburn,  bum- 
min'  around  the  Commercial." 

The  towers  of  Wheat-land  are  the  grain  elevators. 
A  farmer,  rising  to  the  summit  of  a  particular  hill 
top,  might  at  any  time  in  that  district  sweep  his 
glance  around  the  horizon  and  see  several  groups  of 
these  structures  marking  the  place  of  as  many  rail 
road  stations  or  hamlets,  through  which  the  steady 
and  simple  traffic  of  the  country  trickled,  in  little 
streams  that  converged  ultimately  into  a  tide  of 
trade,  roaring  by  many  railed  ways  into  some  smart 
and  bustling  Western  city. 

There  were  three  elevators  in  Oakburn;  and  now, 
by  the  length  of  their  slim  upthrusting  over  a  dis- 

3  21 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

tant  blue  grove  before  him,  Henry  Nicol  knew  that 
he  had  reached  a  point  nearly  midway  between  the 
Kernaghan  farm  and  the  town,  and  five  or  six  miles 
from  Oakburn. 

Having  taken  a  careful  look  at  the  sun,  and  esti 
mated  that  with  judicious  management  of  the  pace 
of  his  team  he  would  reach  home  too  late  to  help 
milk  the  cows,  but  not  so  late  as  to  make  it  look 
other  than  accidental,  he  stopped  the  team  to  facili 
tate  what  was  to  Henry  Nicol  as  important  a  daily 
function  as  eating  bacon  and  eggs — the  filling  of  his 
pipe. 

He  slipped  the  reins  between  his  knees  and 
clamped  his  legs  together  to  hold  the  straps  lightly. 
He  wiped  the  tobacco-dust  from  the  stem  of  his 
pipe  against  the  leg  of  his  overalls,  slipped  the 
utensil  between  his  teeth  with  a  comfortable  click, 
and  blew  through  it  stormily  while  he  cut  tobacco 
into  his  palm  and  rolled  it. 

"Them  oats  o'  Jack  Beamish's,"  he  said,  as  he 
packed  the  seasoned  old  bowl,  "is  certainly  ahead  o' 
Tom's.  He  must  have  rolled  'em  good.  The  things 
about  farmin'  Jack  ain't  on  to  is  few  and  far  be 
tween." 

He  was  opposite  John  Beamish's  fence,  and  the 
large,  red  granary  that  rose  above  the  poplar-grove. 

"Ho-oy,  Harry!"  The  call  came  from  the  grove, 
in  the  high  tones  of  liberty;  and  in  a  moment  Jim 
Dover  emerged  at  the  point  where  the  branch  road 
ran  into  the  trees,  and  came  down  the  right-hand 
rut  (he  kept  to  that  side  because  he  was  used  to 
following  a  plow)  at  a  brisk  trot. 

22 


HENRY  NICOL,  PHILOSOPHER 

"Jim's  emancipated  for  a  day,"  said  Henry  Nicol, 
as  he  threw  away  his  spent  match,  puffed  in  a  leis 
urely  way,  and  waited.  "'Day,  Jim.  Goin'  on  the 
toot?" 

"You  bet  y',"  hurrahed  Jim  Dover,  as  he  climbed 
up  the  front  wheel  with  a  caper  and  banged  himself 
down  on  the  seat.  "I  just  told  Jack  to  go  t'  hell.  I 
got  to  have  a  drink,  an'  that's  the  only  way  to  git 
it.  How's  th'  boy?" 

"I'm  keepin'  fine, ' '  said  Henry  Nicol.  ' '  You  have 
a  pritty  good  time,  don't  y',  Jimmy?  Summer- 
fallerin's  got  to  wait  on  you,  ain't  it,  Jim?" 

"Got  a  match,  Harry?"  said  Jim  Dover,  slipping 
his  pipe  into  his  mouth  and  prodding  the  bowl  with 
his  forefinger.  "Th'  cigars  is  on  me,  boy,  when  we 
hit  Oakburn." 

Jim  Dover  was  a  little,  wiry  man,  whose  immense 
dryness  had  drawn  into  stringy  prominence  every 
cord  in  his  throat.  His  eyes  burned  their  way 
through  a  brown  skin  that  was  tucked  and  puckered 
and  gathered  and  primped  into  wrinkles,  wherever 
a  wrinkle  could  be  packed  away.  There  were 
brackets  on  either  side  of  his  mouth,  arches  three 
deep  above  each  eyebrow,  a  many-stemmed  bouquet 
of  lines  diverging  from  each  eye-corner.  A  double 
trail  of  furrows  rutted  across  his  forehead,  with  a 
parallel  section  under  each  eye,  and  a  link  of  con 
nection  in  the  shape  of  a  kind  of  trefoil  between  his 
eyebrows.  A  deep  line  so  circumscribed  and  in 
dented  his  chin  that  the  chin  looked  like  a  separate 
piece  of  his  face,  an  afterthought,  that  might  be 
plucked  off  and  clapped  on  again  at  will.  He  looked 

23 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

about   three   hundred  years  old,  a   sort   of   junior 
Rameses.     Jim  was  forty- two. 

"You  have  th'  makin's  in  you  of  a  bad  old  man, 
Jim,"  said  Henry  Nicol,  after  eying  him  thought 
fully.  Henry  was  eight  years  older,  but  his  wrinkles 
were  few  and  demure,  and  concealed  by  wombat 
whiskers.  "What  d'you  want  to  work  with  thon 
Jack  Beamish  for?"  Henry  Nicol  went  on,  still  re 
garding  his  companion  reflectively.  "He  don't  pay 
no  wages.  Why'n't  you  get  a  good  job,  Jimmy,  an* 
save  money.  I  got  about  fifteen  hundred  dollars 
in  the  bank.  D'you  know  that?" 

"Draw  about  a  hundred  out,  then,  when  we  get 
to  town,"  said  Jim  Dover,  "an'  we'll  have  one  son 
of  a  moose  of  a  time." 

"Oh,  it  ain't  in  this  bank,"  said  Henry  Nicol.  "I 
could  get  at  it  too  easy.  Anyway,  I  wouldn't  drink 
it  all  up  like  that,  Jim.  It  'ain't  b'en  that  easy  got. 
It's  took  me  about  eighteen  years  to  save  that  up." 

"What  good  is  it  to  you?"  said  Jim  Dover, 
thirstily.  "Laws!  I  wish't  I  had  it  on  me  now. 
I'd  load  up  the  finest  you  ever  see,  Harry,  an'  stay 
loaded.  As  things  is  now,  I  got  to  try  an*  get 
stewed  with  twenty  dollars.  Ain't  it  hell!  Twenty 
dollars!" 

"Your  hull  month's  wages,  eh?"  said  Henry 
Nicol.  "Jim,  you're  a  son  of  a  gun.  .  .  .  D'you  know 
what  I'm  goin'  to  do  with  that  money  o'  mine?" 

"Buy  a  farm?"  inquired  Jim  Dover,  a  little  ab 
sently.  "Getepp,  yous  plugs.  Ain't  we  never  go'n' 
to  get  to  Oakburn,  Harry?  We're  going  about  a 
mile  an  hour." 

24 


HENRY  NICOL,  PHILOSOPHER 

"No,  I  ain't  going  to  load  up  with  no  farm, 
neither,"  Henry  Nicol  went  on,  as  he  made  a  pre 
tense  of  flicking  Baby  Mike  with  the  lash.  "What's 
the  good  of  a  farm?  We're  free  men  when  we're 
hired  out,  Jim.  We  get  our  money,  whether  it  hails 
cordwood  sticks  or  freezes  up  harder  'n  hickory. 
No,  sir,  no  farm  for  me.  Jim,  I'm  a-goin'  to  get 
morried." 

Jim  Dover  gulped  and  blinked.  "Wh-who  to?" 
he  said,  finally. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  yit,"  began  Henry  Nicol,  a 
little  evasively.  "Well,  yes,  maybe  I  do,  too,  Jim. 
You  won't  tell  nobody  now,  eh?  Nobody  at  all, 
Jim?" 

"No,"  said  Jim  Dover,  standing  on  tiptoe  to  look 
for  the  hotel  flagpole.  The  roofs  of  Oakburn  were 
beginning  to  emerge  from  the  woody  growth  on  the 
horizon. 

"Mrs.  Bryans,  it  is,"  said  Henry  Nicol. 

Jim  Dover  took  off  his  hat,  scratched  the  back 
of  his  head,  and  looked  thoughtful.  "Why,"  he 
said,  presently,  "she  do'  know  whether  Bryans  is 
dead  yit,  or  not,  Henry!" 

"She  don't  have  to  wait  to  know  whether  he's 
dead  or  not,"  said  Henry;  "she  can  get  morried 
ag'in  if  he  stays  away  seven  years.  That's  the  law, 
Jim.  He's  b'en  away  over  six  years  now — six 
years,  five  months,  an'  fourteen  days,  Jim." 

"You  and  her  has  got  it  all  reckoned  up,  eh?" 
said  Jim.  "Well,  Henry,  if  it  was  me,  I'd  stay 
away  sixty  years.  He  quit  her.  Of  all  the  red 
headed  trouble-makers — " 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

"That's  enough,  Jim  Dover,*'  said  Henry  Nicol, 
sternly.  ' '  I  don't  want  to  hear  no  more — not  another 
word.  Molly  told  me  the  hull  thing.  It  ain't  her 
fault." 

"I  used  to  work  for  Bryanses,"  said  Jim  Dover. 
"But  if  you're  satisfied,  I  am,  Henry.  Let's  see  the 
persuader." 

Henry  Nicol  absently  passed  the  whip  to  his  com 
panion.  Jim  Dover  took  it,  and  made  a  pass  at  the 
staid  old  sorrel,  Pat. 

"Here,  you,"  said  Henry  Nicol,  coming  out  of 
his  pensiveness  with  a  start.  "What  th'  hell  was 
you  goin'  to  do,  Jim  Dover?  Lick  ol'  Pat?" 

"He's  slower  than  molasses  in  Janiwary,"  said 
Jim  Dover. 

"Well,  you  don't  lay  no  bud  on  that  horse,"  said 
Henry  Nicol,  knocking  his  pipe  out  against  the  edge 
of  the  wagon-box,  "you,  nor  no  other  man.  Not 
while  I'm  around,  Jim.  Gittin'  pretty  dry?" 

"I'll  die  if  I  don't  get  some  sassaparilla  in  about 
fifteen  minutes,"  said  Jim  Dover,  swallowing  hard 
as  the  drab  corner  of  the  Commercial  Hotel  crept 
out  beyond  the  end  of  an  arm  of  poplars. 

"Sassaparilla!"  repeated  Henry  Nicol,  with  a  re 
flective  grin.  "Getapp,  Mikie,  boy." 


IV 

OAKBURN 

OAKBURN  was  strewn,  as  if  the  houses  had  been 
dropped  out  of  a  cyclone  and  had  lain  just 
where  they  fell,  along  the  knolls  adjoining  Oak 
Creek  ravine.  The  creek,  a  stream  ancient  and 
small,  picking  its  way  slowly  along  a  shrunken 
groove  in  the  bottom  of  the  valley  it  had  filled  to 
the  brim  and  roared  down  mightily  in  its  youthful 
glacial  time,  encircled  the  knolly  site  of  Oakburn 
in  a  wide  bend,  and  formed  what  might  have  been 
regarded,  by  a  village  with  an  eye  to  the  neat  and 
orderly  aspect  of  things,  as  a  natural  boundary. 

But  a  place  that  scorned  to  have  a  street,  properly 
so-called,  quite  characteristically  flouted  the  idea  of 
a  limit;  and  so,  with  many  lots  yet  to  be  filled  on 
the  thinly  dotted  area  within  the  creek-bend,  there 
were  adventurous  houses  on  the  farther  bank  of  the 
stream;  ambitious  houses  half-way  up  the  wooded 
valley-slope;  errant  houses  that  had  climbed  out 
of  the  valley  together  and  pitched  themselves,  like 
the  tents  of  nomads,  on  the  wild  old  prairie  beyond; 
and  solitary  houses,  distant  and  small,  peeping  a 
white  farewell  from  the  hilly  rim  of  the  world. 

27 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Herd-like,  too,  apart  from  the  browsing  aspect 
of  its  streetless  grouping,  was  Oakburn  with  its  unit 
cottages  white  and  red  and  gray;  according  as  the 
tenant  had  stayed  in  his  primal  whitewashed  log 
cottage,  or  built  himself  a  frame  house  and  little 
red  stable,  or  gone  a  step  further  and  adventured 
in  stone-masonry. 

The  principal  thoroughfare,  Railway  Avenue, 
which  had  once  been  almost  a  street,  began  at  Oak- 
burn's  one  tall  elevator  and  ran  along  before  the 
irregular  rank  of  little,  cheerful,  large-lettered  places 
of  business  that  sunnily  faced  the  track  on  its  north 
ern  side.  There  were  two  gaps,  made  lately  by 
destroying  fires;  and  that  it  is  an  ill  breeze  blows 
good  to  nobody  was  manifestly  felt  by  the  boys  in 
overalls  and  binder-twine  braces,  who  poked  around 
in  the  ashes  of  Ginnell's  grocery-store  for  cans  of 
rather  overcooked  but  eminently  eatable  salmon,  or 
sought  rusty  spring-skates  and  iron  nuts  for  their 
"sling-shots"  in  the  ruins  of  Angus  McGregor's 
hardware-store. 

The  buildings  on  this  street  that  the  fire  had  spared 
stood  in  a  kind  of  zigzag.  Nat  Bourke's  blacksmith 
shop  butted  into  the  sidewalk.  Sam  Larkin's  little 
rough-lumber  harness-store  had,  as  it  were,  retreated 
to  the  far  edge  of  its  lot — as  though,  like  Sam  him 
self,  who  had  more  "jobs"  piled  back  behind  his 
stool  than  he  could  have  caught  up  with  by  working 
twenty-four  hours  a  day  all  summer,  the  shack  was 
standing  at  bay.  Archie  McMillan's  livery  stable 
thrust  itself  right  out  and  made  the  sidewalk  take 
a  detour.  The  Pioneer  Store  of  Robert  McLeod,  in 


OAKBURN 

order  that  it  might  accommodate  a  sudden  deviation 
in  the  street,  stood  at  an  angle  that  brought  the 
lumber-room  at  its  back  within  a  few  feet  of  Archie 
McMillan's  woodpile.  Finally,  the  Commercial 
Hotel,  halted  indefinitely  in  the  process  of  being 
moved,  was  perched  on  skids  almost  in  the  middle 
of  the  road! 

Back  from  Railway  Avenue  might  be  seen  the 
Presbyterian  Church,  that  was  rented  on  successive 
Sundays  to  the  Episcopals,  Baptists,  and  Methodists. 
Then  there  was  the  post-office,  unique  in  Oakburn 
in  that  it  had  three  stories — the  ground  floor  com 
prising  store  and  post-office,  the  second  floor  a  hall 
for  entertainments,  and  the  third  an  apartment  flat, 
occupied  by  the  Oakburn  teacher  and  barrister,  who 
"batched"  together.  A  short  distance  away  stood 
the  Baldwin  boarding-house — storm-bleached,  ram 
bling,  and  unprepossessing  without,  but  the  most 
hospitable  establishment  in  the  world,  and  the 
scene  of  more  matrimonial  entanglements  than  any 
other  village  stopping-place  ever  known.  Mrs. 
Baldwin  conducted  it  on  strictly  "temperance" 
principles;  but  that,  as  the  licensed  Commercial 
Hotel  was  within  a  stone's-throw,  did  not  interfere 
with  its  popularity. 

Other  buildings  that  might  attract  attention  were 
Tom  Carr's  cottage  that,  following  the  example  of 
the  school-house,  had  jumped  the  creek;  John 
Galley's  "green  cottage,"  which  had  wandered  into 
the  skirts  of  a  poplar  grove,  over  the  foliage  of  which 
one  could  see  the  long,  upright  pole  and  red  blanket 
with  which  Mrs.  Galley  signaled  to  John,  at  the 

39 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

lime-kiln,  that  dinner  was  ready ;  and  the  large, 
fancifully  gabled  house  of  Bob  McLeod,  owner  of 
the  Pioneer  Store  and,  outwardly  at  least,  the 
Rockefeller  of  Oakburn,  which  structure  stood  arro 
gantly  apart  on  a  knoll  outside  the  town. 

But  Oakburn 's  most  peculiar  dwelling,  and  the 
one  in  which  the  town's  general  eccentricity  in  archi 
tecture  seemed  to  have  found  a  grand  and  crowning 
culmination,  was  the  house  of  Matthew  Rodgers. 

This  building  stood  westward  of  Oakburn,  just  at 
the  top  of  the  farther  bank  of  Oak  Creek  Valley. 
Looking  at  it,  standing  at  the  end  of  the  snake-like 
strip  of  trail  that  wriggled  up  the  hillside  from  the 
plank  bridge  over  the  creek,  one's  nerve  of  curiosity, 
made  already  sensitive  by  a  walk  through  Oakburn, 
received  here  an  added  pique. 

To  the  southward  it  presented  a  streakily  white 
washed  log  wall;  to  the  west  a  face  of  warped  clap 
boards;  to  the  north  a  blank  front  of  sods;  and  to 
the  east,  for  the  inspection  and  puzzlement  of 
strangers,  a  solid  aspect  of  stone  and  mortar. 

On  a  closer  view  one  saw  that  the  explanation  of 
this  lateral  diversity  lay  in  the  fact  that  from  a 
square,  central  building  of  unhewn  logs  radiated  a 
cluster  of  smaller  structures  of  the  species  "lean-to," 
of  every  size  and  description  known  to  prairie  archi 
tecture.  Of  these,  the  stone  one,  which  was  the 
milk-house,  was  separated  from  the  main  building  by 
a  narrow  passage.  On  one  side  of  this  lane,  hidden 
from  view  until  one  was  actually  confronted  with 
it,  was  the  door  which  gave  entrance  to  Matthew 
Rodgers's  house. 

30 


OAKBURN 

This  peculiar  farmstead  was  typical  at  once  of 
Oakburn,  and  of  Matthew  Rodgers. 

It  was  typical  of  the  village  in  the  unskilful  and 
haphazard  manner  of  its  erection,  like  a  child's 
play-house.  It  was  representative  of  its  owner  from 
a  different  viewpoint.  The  stony  front,  the  inhos 
pitably  hidden  door,  which  it  turned  toward  Oak- 
burn,  were  identical  with  the  attitude  which  Matthew 
had  maintained  toward  the  gossipy  and  obtuse  little 
village  all  through  the  twenty-five  years  he  had  been 
a  resident.  He  had  been  fortunate  enough  in  his 
pioneering  to  settle  upon  a  homestead  which  had, 
with  the  coming  of  the  railroad,  become  the  site  of 
Oakburn.  He  practically  owned  the  village.  He 
could  have  bought  out,  twice  over,  the  enterprising 
McLeod  of  the  ostentatious  and  fancifully  gabled 
house  which  stood  so  exclusively  apart.  Yet,  in 
stead  of  following  the  example  of  the  other  Oakburn 
pioneers  in  moving  out  of  his  original  rude  log 
shanty  into  a  neat  frame  house  as  the  coming  of  the 
years  brought  prosperity,  he  had  remained  in  his  old 
quarters;  and,  in  the  store  in  the  big,  three-story 
building  in  Oakburn  which  was  one  of  his  later 
enterprises  he  still  continued  his  practice,  as  in  the 
little  old  shop  through  which  all  Oakburn 's  trade 
had  once  passed,  of  substituting  a  small  apple  for 
a  large  one  to  make  the  scales  balance. 


THE    ENGLISHMAN 

TOM  KERNAGHAN'S  wagon  pulled  up  at  the 
door  of  Archie   McMillan's  "horse  exchange," 
in  Oakburn.     Its  occupants  dismounted,  but  each 
in  a  different  way. 

Henry  Nicol  climbed  down  in  a  leisurely  manner 
by  the  hub  of  the  front  wheel;  Jim  Dover  ran  to 
the  back  of  the  wagon-box  and  jumped  out,  moving 
with  a  rapidity  that  would  have  made  John  Beamish 
nod  in  grim  promise  of  making  this  human  mule  of 
his  extend  himself  in  work  as  he  did  in  play,  had  the 
farmer  been  there  to  watch. 

A  certain  odor,  not  that  of  the  spring  blossoms 
which  grew  about  its  skids,  coming  across  from  the 
Commercial  Hotel,  made  Jim  tilt  his  hat  over  one 
ear  and  dance  as  he  helped  Henry  unhitch  Pat  and 
Mike.  Archie  McMillan,  whose  whiskers  grew  all 
around  an  immense  red  face  that  had  won  its  briny 
bloom  from  a  youth  spent  going  down  to  the  sea  in 
ships,  leaned  over  and  whispered  grinningly  to  Jim 
Mitchell,  the  vet.,  who  stood  in  the  stable  door 
way  wiping  his  hands  with  hay  after  some  recent 
work  of  repair  on  one  of  Archie's  horses. 

32 


THE  ENGLISHMAN 

"'Day,  Henry;  'day,  Jim,"  said  Mr.  McMillan, 
cordially,  turning  toward  the  new-comers  after  his 
communion  with  the  horse-family  physician.  "Dry 
weather  this,  hey?  Bad  for  the  crops." 

"You  think  you  know  a  hull  lot  about  crops, 
don't  you,  Archie?"  observed  Henry  Nicol,  gravely, 
as  he  led  Pat  forward  with  one  arm  laid  affectionate 
ly  about  the  old  animal's  neck.  "Keep  a  short  holt 
on  that  colt,  Jimmy;  he  gets  wild  as  a  deer  when  he 
smells  oats." 

A  thin  line  of  smoke,  lengthening  along  the  hill 
east  of  the  village,  caught  Henry's  eye  as,  ten 
minutes  later,  he  followed  the  prancing  Jim  Dover 
up  the  planks  laid  from  the  roadside  to  the  high- 
perched  bar-entrance  of  the  Commercial  Hotel. 

"I'll  just  have  time  for  one  little  snort  with  you, 
Jim,"  he  said,  "then  I'll  have  to  go  over  and  get 
that  new  teacher-man  off  the  train.  Gosh!  there 
won't  be  a  miskitta  left  in  Oakburn  when  thon  train 
gets  apast,  the  way  she's  smokin'." 

The  room  into  which  Jim  Dover,  taking  a  hurdling 
short  cut  over  two  chairs  and  a  spittoon,  led  Henry 
Nicol  had  some  of  the  convenient  features  of  a 
freight-car. 

It  was  long  and  narrow.  Its  luck-inviting  horse 
shoe  was  nailed  over  a  wide  door  that  gave  right  to 
outdoors,  with  no  confusing  hallway.  When  the 
hotel,  which  had  narrowly  escaped  one  of  the  recent 
fires  on  luckless  Railway  Avenue,  and  was  being 
moved  by  the  proprietor,  Tom  Taylor,  to  a  fresh 
and  safer  location  on  a  street  where  the  houses  were 
thinner,  should  be  on  solid  ground  again,  it  would 

33 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

have  this  wide  door  of  the  bar  facing  the  sidewalk, 
exactly  as  on  the  old  site.  Country  customers  "the 
worse  fer  licker"  could  then  be  handily  steered  out 
side  and  given  obliging  "hoosts"  into  wagons  which 
they  always  managed  in  some  providential  way  to 
pilot  safely  across  the  prairie  to  the  distant  home 
stead  and  the  grumbling,  hastily  breeched  vassal 
with  the  stable-lantern. 

Thirstier  Oakburn  might  be  divided  into  two 
classes — the  perennials  and  the  periodicals.  The 
perennials  were  those  rotund  and  stall-fed  inhabi 
tants  who  moved  from  the  sitting-room  chairs  to  the 
bar-counter  and  back  again  to  the  sitting-room 
chairs,  and  whose  abilities  were  chiefly  epic  and 
absorbent.  The  periodicals  were  those  who  came 
only  on  holidays,  or  at  the  time  of  the  Oakburn 
"show-fair,"  or  after  harvest;  although  sometimes 
they  blew  in,  bronzed  and  big,  on  rainy  Saturdays. 
They  had  not  the  air  of  prosperity  or  placidity  which 
marked  the  perennials.  They  had  no  epic  or  enter 
taining  powers.  They  ate  the  Commercial's  pantry 
empty,  drank  the  Commercial's  bar  dry,  muddied 
the  floor,  wanted  to  fight  everybody,  wasted  the 
liveryman's  hay  and  oats,  gave  the  town  insomnia, 
and  finally  had  to  be  lifted  into  their  wagons  to  go 
home.  But  they  were  welcomed  by  everybody, 
where  the  perennials  were  only  tolerated;  and  if 
anybody  had  to  sleep  in  the  hayloft  when  they 
crowded  to  town,  it  was  one  of  the  paunchy  per 
ennials;  for  these  noisy  customers  of  the  country 
side  had  each  a  handsome  lump  in  his  trousers 
pocket,  where  the  ever-present  sitting-room  cus- 

34 


THE  ENGLISHMAN 

tomer  had  only  a  crease.  The  periodical  paid  his 
way  and  went  his  way;  the  perennial  charged  and 
stayed. 

There  was  one  of  these,  Oakburn's  parasitic  in 
habitants,  in  the  bar  now.  When  Jim  Dover  and 
Henry  Nicol  came  in  he  was  leaning  against  one  of 
the  iron  rods  put  across  the  window  to  guard  it 
from  inebriate  elbows.  His  thumbs,  hooked  under 
neath  his  suspenders,  held  his  coat  back,  showing  a 
dingy  shirt-bosom,  a  keg-like  waist,  and  trousers 
wrinkled  across  the  groin.  His  feet,  in  large,  flat- 
soled  shoes,  were  crossed,  one  toe  cuddled  beneath 
the  other  instep.  He  had  instinctively  struck  the 
attitude  in  which  his  muscles  needed  to  do  least 
work  to  keep  him  erect ;  or  in  other  words,  he  stood 
the  laziest  a  man  could  possibly  stand  without 
falling  down. 

Tom  Taylor,  the  proprietor  of  the  Commercial 
Hotel,  was  bent  over  behind  the  counter,  uncrating 
bottles.  He  straightened,  wiping  the  tow  from  a 
bottle  as  his  ear  caught  the  familiar  short,  staccato 
step  of  Jim  Dover;  and  a  hospitable  beaming  spread 
in  circling  rings,  like  stone-ripples  on  a  slough,  from 
his  great  black  mustache  to  the  four  marginal 
points  of  his  visage — the  mid-forehead  tassel  of 
tough,  weedy  hair,  the  blue-shaven  chin-point,  and 
the  right  and  left  red  knobs  of  ear.  Even  if  nobody 
else  visited  the  bar  all  day — a  most  unusual  con 
tingency — Jim  Dover's  arrival  meant  anything  from 
fifteen  to  twenty-five  dollars'  worth  of  business. 
In  addition  to  this  there  would  be  the  incidental 
fringe  of  traffic  done  with  those  who  came  to  enter- 

35 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

tain  themselves  with  the  spectacle  of  one  of  the 
thirstiest  men  who  ever  lived  "  get  tin*  ginned  up." 

Tom  leaned  on  the  counter,  brushing  his  mus 
tache  back  on  either  side  with  his  forefinger  and 
giving  his  characteristic  little  cough  before  speaking. 
He  stuttered  a  little;  and  the  short  cough  was  al 
ways  interjected,  as  if  to  clear  his  speaking  channel, 
when  a  word  came  hard. 

"H'm!  H'm!  'Day,  genTmen.  What  '11  y'— 
h'm!— what  '11  y'  have?" 

The  face  of  Andy  Robb  at  the  window-rod,  on 
which  was  the  perpetually  grieved  look  of  a  man 
whose  long  wait  for  congenial  occupation  has  not 
been  rewarded  by  the  turning-up  of  a  single  job  a 
man  might  with  dignity  do,  changed  slightly  at  sight 
of  the  customers,  and  his  larnyx  rose  and  fell  twice. 
The  eye  that,  because  of  its  being  in  the  track  of 
the  smoke  ascending  from  the  abbreviated  cigar- 
stub  in  the  right-hand  corner  of  Andy's  mouth,  had 
been  protectively  battened  shut,  opened  as  its  owner, 
with  the  prospect  of  a  new  cigar  in  view,  deftly 
and  without  burning  his  fingers  extracted  the  brown 
half-inch  butt  from  his  teeth  and  threw  it  away, 
just  in  time  to  prevent  his  mustache  catching  fire. 

Beyond  thus  putting  to  work  the  eye  that  had 
been  resting,  Andy,  however,  did  not  move  away 
from  his  reception  station  at  the  window. - 

"'Day,  Jim,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  suggested 
Mr.  Robb  was  the  real  owner  and  proprietor  of  the 
hotel  and  Tom  Taylor  merely  the  man  who  did  the 
work.  "How-do,  Henry?"  Then,  setting  his  hat 
back,  Andy  raised  a  languidly  autocratic  finger. 

36 


THE  ENGLISHMAN 

pointed  to  one  of  the  freshly  unpacked  bottles,  and 
said,  "Let  the  boys  try  some  o'  that  new  stuff  you 
just  got  in,  Tom." 

"Wha — h'm! — whatever  you  say,  Andy."  And 
the  hotel-keeper,  with  a  furtive  grin  and  wink  at  the 
speaker,  picked  up  with  a  flourish  an  immense  black 
vial  labeled  in  barbaric  splendor  all  down  the  side 
and  further  embellished  with  an  auxiliary  sticker 
around  the  neck.  Drawing  the  cork  from  the 
bottle's  muzzle  with  a  seductive  "pop,"  Tom  Tay 
lor  set  it  on  the  counter  in  a  busy,  ostentatious  way 
and  reached  behind  him  for  glasses. 

Jim  Dover's  eyes  kindled.  "Come  on,  ever'- 
body,"  he  said,  flourishing  a  ten-dollar  bill.  "Hur 
ray,  Andy!" 

Andy  Robb,  after  a  very  life-like  delineation  of 
indecision,  teetered  over  to  the  counter. 

"We-ell,"  he  said,  stroking  his  chin,  "don't  mind 
if  I  do,  boys.  I'll  just  have  a  little  o'  the  reg'lar, 
Tom." 

"I  guess  maybe  I  will,  too,  if  it's  just  the  same 
to  all  hands,"  remarked  Henry  Nicol,  glancing  at 
the  bottle  of  "new  stuff"  out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye. 

"I'll  have  anything,"  shrilled  Jim  Dover,  grabbing 
the  bottle,  decanting  a  splashing  tumblerful,  con 
ceding  a  hasty  "Here's  lookin',  boys,"  and  tossing 
it  off  (as  Andy  Robb  admiringly  related  afterward) 
at  "one  h'ist,  sir." 

Henry  Nicol,  helping  himself  lightly  to  the  "reg' 
lar,"  drank  with  haste;  for  the  loud  alarm  of  an 
engine-whistle,  sweeping  like  a  vocal  wind  along 
4  37 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

the  Oak  Creek  bluffs,  told  that  the  express  was 
crossing  the  trestle  just  outside  the  village. 

"See  you  again  later,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  as  he 
ran  down  the  plank  from  the  bar  door,  crossed  the 
roadway,  and  made  his  way  down  grassy  Railway 
Avenue  to  the  little  slate-colored  station  building. 
He  reached  it  just  as  the  train  roared  in. 

Only  three  people  got  off.  Two  of  these — the 
conductor  of  the  train,  and  an  old  woman  with  a 
battered  "telescope"  valise — Henry  was  able  to 
dismiss  at  once  as  pedagogic  possibilities.  He  there 
fore  approached  the  third,  a  tall,  athletic-looking  man 
in  faded  tweeds,  with  a  cigarette  and  an  eczematic 
old  Gladstone  bag. 

"Are  you  the  school-teacher?"  said  Henry. 

"Am  I  a  what?"  rejoined  the  tall  man,  playfully. 

"The  new  Islay  school-teacher  is  the  man  I  want," 
said  Henry,  mildly.  "I  guess  you  ain't  him." 

"Your  surmise  is  most  extraordinarily  correct," 
the  stranger  remarked,  with  blandness;  "I  ain't  him." 

"Mackinaw!  I  guess  he  hasn't  came,  then," 
soliloquized  Henry,  aloud.  "School  opens  on  Mon 
day,  too,  and  this  is  Saturday." 

"Well,  my  friend,"  said  the  tall  man,  "I  should 
jolly  well  like  to  help  you  out;  but  the  fact  is,  I 
happen  to  be  lookin'  for  farm  work,  not  a  pro 
fessorial  chair.  Does  a  man  by  the  name  of  Morton 
live  out  your  way?" 

"Adam  Morton?" 

"Yes;  Adam,  or  some  bally  name  like  that.  I've 
been  corresponding  with  him  through  those  chaps 
at  the  employment  bureau  down  there." 

38 


THE  ENGLISHMAN 

"Adam's  b'en  wantin'  a  man,  all  right,"  said 
Henry.  "I  guess  I  can  give  you  a  lift  out  in  my  rig 
yonder,  if  you're  headin'  for  Morton's — that's  if 
you  don't  mind  get  tin'  your  insides  jolted  out  of 
you  in  a  wagon-box.  I  can't  ast  you  to  set  on  the 
spring-seat,  for  I  got  comp'ny — if  the  comp'ny's  able 
to  set  up  there,  goin'  back." 

"Well,"  said  the  tall  stranger,  reflectively,  "in 
spite  of  the  prospect  you  mention,  I  should  much 
rather  ride  with  you  than  walk  it.  Smoke?"  He 
held  out  a  silver  cigarette-case. 

"I  smoke,"  said  Henry,  "but  I  take  my  p'ison 
in  a  cob  pipe  like  what  you  notice  I  have  in  my 
mouth.  Did  you  have  your  dinner  yet?" 

"I  had  something  that  I  intended  should  serve 
as  the  meal  you  term  dinner,"  observed  the  other, 
setting  down  his  valise  while  he  lighted  a  cigarette, 
"a  finicky  bit  of  rather  new  cheese  and  a  portly 
cross-section  of  bread,  together  with  some  dread 
ful  tea  that  must  have  been  boiled  for  hours  at 
least.  Cost  me  my  last  bob." 

"Your  last  what?"  said  Henry. 

"Bob — quarter,  I  suppose  you  would  say,"  eluci 
dated  the  stranger.  "Did  you  remark  that  the 
structure  over  there,"  indicating  the  derricked-up 
Commercial  Hotel  with  a  dilettante  finger-end,  "was 
a  pub?" 

"I  didn't  say  what  it  was,"  said  Henry,  "just 
yet;  but  if  you  mean  'hotel,'  you  guessed  right, 
Mr. — what's  this  you  said  your  name  was,  again?" 

"Sydney  Ashton,  at  your  service,"  responded  the 
sole  male  Oakburn  destine,  cordially,  as  he  picked 

39 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

up  his  bag  and  dropped  into  step  beside  his  ques 
tioner.  "What  say  we  have  a  nip  of  something, 
old  fellow?" 

"We  better  not  go  near  there  now,"  observed 
Henry,  with  a  slow  grin;  "there's  a  terrible  dry- 
party  in  there  by  the  name  of  Jim  Dover,  who  ain't 
a-goin'  to  quit  till  he  gets  his  hull  month's  pay  in 
side  of  him — twenty  dollars — less  what  ginger  ale 
an*  what  he  gives  away  to  another  old  bar'l  called 
Andy  Robb.  Them  two  would  keep  you  drinkin' 
till  you  tipped  over.  Do  you  like  our  country  as 
well  as  what  you  liked  the  country  you  come 
from?" 

' '  Old  chap,  I  like  it  vastly— vastly . ' '  The  English 
man,  as  he  brought  this  out,  squeezed  Henry's  bi 
ceps  playfully  and  thrust  the  handle  of  his  Glad 
stone  bag  into  that  gentleman's  hanging  hand.  "I 
say,  you  won't  mind  taking  charge  of  my  bag  for 
a  jiff,  will  you?  Just  drop  it  into  the  back  of  your 
rig  as  you  pass,  and  keep  your  eye  on  it.  I  think 
I'll  join  those  jolly  old  wastrels  in  the  pub — sha'n't 
have  another  chance  for  a  bit,  you  know.  Let  me 
know  when  you're  going  in  to  lunch,  won't  you — 
there's  a  good  fellow.  Tra-la-la!" 

Henry,  a  humorous  expression  making  little  bulges 
in  that  portion  of  his  wombat  whisker-fringe  which 
edged  his  mouth-corners,  stood  a  moment  with  the 
valise  in  his  hand,  looking  after  the  other  man  as, 
pulling  off  his  cloth  cap  and  carrying  it,  Ashton 
strode  off  at  his  splurging,  straight-legged,  English 
stride  toward  the  plank  gangway  that  led  into  the 
Commercial's  bar.  Henry  himself  had  just  enough 

40 


THE  ENGLISHMAN 

taste  for  whisky  to  make  him  coquettish  toward 
it,  and  the  sight  of  a  big  man  beckoned  from 
afar  by  a  little  bottle  always  brought  his  tolerant 
smile. 

As  Ashton  swung  himself  handily  up  the  slanting 
boards,  his  recent  companion  proceeded  good- 
naturedly  toward  the  livery-stable  to  put  the  valise 
into  the  wagon  and  have  a  little  conversational  tilt 
with  Archie  McMillan  and  the  vet.  while  the  three 
waited  for  the  dinner-signal  from  Oakburn's  rival 
eating-places.  There  was  never  any  doubt  when 
dinner  was  ready  in  Oakburn.  Simultaneously,  as 
though  obeying  a  given  signal,  Mrs.  Maggie  Taylor 
with  a  cowbell  and  Snoosh  Baldwin  with  a  device 
known  as  a  rhinoceros-deafener  (and  aptly  so  called) 
appeared,  respectively,  at  the  doors  of  the  Commer 
cial  Hotel  and  the  Baldwin  boarding-house,  and  for 
the  space  of  three  minutes  held  discordant  competi 
tion  across  the  hamlet's  checker  of  flower-bordered 
lots  and  lanes,  relieving  regularly  at  twelve  o'clock 
each  day  a  situation  they  had  created  by  opening 
their  kitchen  doors  while  the  meat  was  roasting  and 
letting  odors  seductive  and  suggestive  permeate 
Oakburn. 

It  was  during  his  leisurely  walk  toward  the  stable 
that  Henry,  casting  his  glance  about  in  comfortable, 
town-going  contemplation,  became  aware  of  a  buck- 
board  jogging  down  the  easy  slope  by  which  the 
Islay  trail  entered  the  village.  A  man  native  to 
Wheat-land  has  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  a  neigh 
bor's  horse  and  rig,  even  half  a  mile  away;  and 
Henry  Nicol,  as  he  eyed  the  approaching  vehicle, 

41 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

scratched  the  back  of  his  head  and  observed  to 
himself,  in  his  habit  of  low-muttered  soliloquy: 

"Now,  there's  Adam  Morton's  horse  and  buggy. 
It  '11  be  Clara  a-drivin',  for  it's  her  that  always  comes 
to  town  for  the  groceries.  Thon  Ashton's  goin'  out 
to  work  for  Adam;  an'  if  he  gets  to  know  that's 
Morton's  rig  and  there's  a  chance  o'  ridin'  them 
ten  miles  in  a  buggy,  I  won't  be  able  to  yank  him 
into  Tom's  solid-bumpin'  old  tally-ho  with  a  loggin'- 
chain,  and  the  gal  will  have  to  ride  him  out  to  her 
dad's  all  tanked  up.  I  better  go  down  and  meet 
her,  an'  tell  her  to  slip  over  to  Baldwin's  for  dinner. 
Then  111  give  Ashton  his  oats  at  the  Commercial 
an'  get  him  into  the  wagon  with  me  an'  Jim." 

It  was  in  pursuance  of  this  plan  that  Henry,  a 
few  moments  later,  having  walked  to  a  point  by 
the  roadside  a  hundred  yards  or  so  below  where  the 
Commerical  Hotel  stood,  awaited  the  emerging  of 
the  buckboard  from  its  dip  into  the  Oak  Creek 
ravine.  As  the  vehicle  appeared  he  took  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth  and  stared  at  the  sight  of  two  people 
sitting  on  a  seat  where  he  had  expected  to  see  but 
one.  While  he  was  speculating  as  to  the  identity 
of  the  young  man  in  store  clothes  who  occupied  the 
seat  with  Clara,  he  felt  a  pinch  at  his  elbow.  Turn 
ing,  he  confronted  Ashton. 

"Ah-hah!"  twinkled  that  party,  roguishly. 
"Thought  you'd  bunk,  eh?  Jolly  old  humbug — I 
love  you  all  the  better  for  it." 

Henry  stuck  his  thumbs  under  his  braces,  jerked 
his  head  merrily  aslant,  and  eyed  Ashton  up  and 
down. 

42 


THE  ENGLISHMAN 

"We  quit  get  tin*  our  hair  cut  after  we  go  bald — 
don't  we,  boy?"  he  said.  "Whee-ee!  How  the  hell 
are  you?" 

Either  Ashton's  previous  show  of  ecstasy  at  the 
prospect  of  liquor  had  been  mere  monkey-play  and 
he  had  really  taken  none,  or  he  was  " carrying" 
any  he  might  have  imbibed  marvelously  well;  for 
by  not  so  much  as  the  flicker  of  an  eyelash  did  he 
respond  to  Henry's  jovial  scheme  for  finding  out  if 
he  was  drunk.  He  did  not  even  glance  Henry's 
way,  but  turned  his  eyes  with  a  hearty  quickening 
of  interest  toward  the  approaching  buckboard. 

"Now,  whom  have  we  here?"  he  said,  slipping 
off  his  cap,  that  had  got  a  little  to  one  side,  and 
showing  a  fine  head  of  black,  curly  hair,  a  little  gray 
at  the  temples,  as  Clara  Morton,  prettily  colored  and 
dimpling  naively  in  anticipation  of  Henry  Nicol's 
yet  unmade  but  as  she  knew  inevitable  comment  on 
her  "company,"  drove  shyly  up. 

Henry,  however,  was  still  mentally  busy  with  the 
problem  of  Ashton  and  the  ten-mile  drive. 

"Mackinaw!"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly,  turning 
toward  the  Englishman,  after  tipping  his  hat  with  a 
kind  of  major-general's  salute  at  Clara.  "Here,  I've 
went  and  left  thon  grip  of  yours  in  that  open  wagon, 
with  Archie  McMillan  gone  over  to  the  harness- 
maker's  and  them  young  stable-lads  pokin'  around 
with  nobody  to  watch  'em.  You  better  skin  over 
an'  see  if  it's  all  right,  Ashton.  I'll  be  with  you, 
right  away." 

Ashton  partly  replied  to  this  suggestion  with  an 
other  surreptitious  squeeze  of  the  elbow  he  held. 

43 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

"I  say,  old  chap,"  he  supplemented,  aloud,  "in 
troduce  me,  you  know — there's  a  dear.  As  far  as 
that  grip  is  concerned,  if  any  beggar  wishes  to  lug 
it  off  he  may  have  it  for  his  pains." 

Henry  wrinkled  up  his  nose  comically.  "I've 
always  had,"  he  said,  "a  son-of-a-moose  of  an  ob 
jection  to  introducin'  a  man  to  my  daughter  till  I 
get  to  know  him  myself." 

1 'Your  daughter!"  Ashton  stepped  forward  in  a 
smooth,  confident,  ladies'-man  way.  "Miss  Morton, 
as  I  know  perfectly  well  who  you  are,  and  as  I 
can't  wait  any  longer  for  the  silly  old  ass,  111  intro 
duce  myself.  My  name's  Ashton,  and  it  so  hap 
pens  that  I'm  on  my  way  out  to  your  ranch.  Your 
father  engaged  me  by  letter,  to  assist  him  for  the 
season,  you  know.  I  might  further  explain,  for  the 
sake  of  our  mystified  friend  here,  that  Mr.  Taylor, 
the  proprietor  of  the  pub.  over  there,  happened  to 
notice  your  trap  driving  up  just  now,  and  mentioned 
your  name.  I  simply  couldn't  wait  for  the  oppor 
tunity  to  meet  you — of  course.  So  I  strolled  down, 
you  see." 

Ernie  Bedford,  who  had  up  to  now  merely  gazed 
across  at  the  Englishman  with  a  kind  of  pensive 
curiosity,  drew  his  brows  together  at  the  last  words, 
moved  his  eyes  quickly  askance  in  a  look  at  Clara, 
and  then  transferred  them  again  in  a  glowering 
young-man  way  to  the  ingratiating  Ashton.  Clara 
leaned  out,  extending  her  hand  in  an  old-fashioned 
manner. 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,  indeed,"  she  said,  disre 
garding  innocently  the  squeeze  Henry's  companion 

44 


THE  ENGLISHMAN 

gave  the  little  red  fingers.  "Father  told  me  to 
watch  for  you  to-day,  if  I  reached  town  before  the 
train  came  in.  He  wasn't  exactly  expecting  you  for 
sure  till  the  first  of  the  month,  though." 

"Jolly  good  of  your  pater,  I'm  sure,"  said  Ashton, 
glibly.  "I  came  deliberately  on  a  Saturday,  though, 
because  I've  been  some  years  in  the  country  and 
I  know  you  bally  agriculturists  only  come  to  town 
at  the  week-ends.  But  ah!"  he  swayed  slightly, 
"in  my  wild-ist  dreams  of  bliss  I  never  imagined  I 
should  have  a  charming  young  lady  to  drive  me  out 
to  the  Morton  ranch.  But,  pardon  me — is  your 
brother  returning  thither,  and  shall  we  have  to  ride 
three  in  a  seat?" 

"Oh!"  Clara,  with  a  smile  at  Henry,  turned  to 
Ernie  Bedford.  "I've  got  somebody  here  that 
you're  looking  for,  Henry.  This  is  our  new  teacher." 

Henry  Nicol  gulped  and  blinked. 

"Your  new  which?"  he  said. 

"The  teacher— Mr.  Bedford." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know  his  name  ought  to  be  Bedford," 
said  Henry.  "Tom  Kernaghan  told  me  all  about 
that.  The  part  you  ain't  explained  is  how  the  front 
side  of  him  is  turned  facin'  east,  when  I  thought  he 
was  to  come  from  that  d'rection.  Where  in  blazes 
did  you  get  him?  I  watched  the  train,  an*  I  hunted 
the  town  over;  but  I  never  once  thought  of  lookin' 
out  on  the  prairie  among  the  scrub." 

Ernie,  a  little  red-faced,  explained  the  situation. 

"Well,"  said  Henry,  when  he  had  finished,  "I'll 
take  your  word  for  it,  boy.  It's  a  good  thing  you 
'ain't  got  to  tackle  a  school  like  Islay  with  a  broke 

45 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

neck,  though,  like  I'd  have  had  if  I'd  roamed  off 
a  train  goin'  forty  mile  an  hour.  How  do  you  like 
your  company?"  Henry  corrugated  the  whole  side 
of  his  face  in  a  wink  that,  if  its  power  had  been  ex 
pended  in  a  straight  lift,  would  have  raised  the  side 
of  the  buckboard. 

"Because,  if  you  like  it  as  well  as  Clara  likes 
hers,"  continued  the  speaker,  incorrigibly,  "yous 
young  ones  had  better  drive  out  together  as  fur  as 
Adam's,  and  I'll  pick  the  teacher  up  when  I  turn  in 
to  your  place,  on  the  way  home  to  Tom's,  to  deliver 
Mr.  Man  here  to  your  dad.  How  does  that  catch 
you?" 

"All  bally  rot,"  put  in  Ashton,  with  a  slight  first 
evidence  of  quarrelsomeness.  "I,  for  my  part, 
sha'n't  think  of  being  slammed  and  jiggled  about 
in  a  lumber-wagon  when  this  young  woman  has 
brought  in  a  trap  to  fetch  me." 

"I  don't  mind  the  wagon,"  said  Ernie  Bedford, 
glancing  sidewise  at  Ashton  and  remaining  oblivious 
to  a  whole  broadside  of  sign-language  from  Henry; 
"it  won't  be  the  first  time  I've  traveled  on  a  wagon- 
seat." 

"It  ain't  the  seat  you're  a-goin'  to  travel  on, 
though,  boy,  if  you  go  with  me,"  pursued  Henry 
Nicol,  wagging  his  head  about  in  a  vigorous  but 
vain  effort  to  catch  the  teacher's  eye.  "It  ain't 
the  seat — it's  the  slats.  A  friend  o'  mine  by  the 
name  of  Jim  Dover  gets  first  ch'ice  of  the  seat — if 
he's  able  to  set.  He  ain't  a  big  man,  but" — Henry 
grinned  reflectively — "he'll  likely  need  all  the  room 
there  is." 

46 


THE  ENGLISHMAN 

Further  parley  between  the  members  of  the  group 
was  at  this  point  interrupted  by  an  odd  clangor  that, 
echoing  among  the  Oak  Creek  bluffs,  seemed  to 
come  from  all  points  of  the  compass  at  once,  but 
really  proceeded  from  only  two — nor'-nor'east  where, 
in  the  middle  distance,  Snoosh  Baldwin  emptied  his 
young  lungs  into  the  rhinoceros-deaf ener;  and  due 
south,  where  Mrs.  Maggie  Taylor,  at  the  door  of 
the  Commercial  Hotel,  gyrated  a  hale  wrist  and  a 
pendent  cowbell. 

Henry  Nicol  jumped  off  the  ground  in  a  startlingly 
agile  manner  for  a  man  only  a  few  years  short  of 
sixty,  cracked  his  heels  together  deftly,  and  as  he 
came  down  whacked  Ashton  jovially  between  the 
shoulders  in  a  way  that  made  that  gentleman  take 
a  short,  unsteady  step  forward,  then  turn  and 
glower  in  irate  interrogation. 

"I'll  give  you  a  head-start  to  thon  old  tomato- 
can  an'  beat  you  to  dinner, ' '  Henry  said.  * '  Come  on ! 
The  school-teacher  will  see  that  Clara  gets  her  horse 
put  in  at  Archie's." 

Ashton,  in  the  bump-on-a-log  stage  of  the  Bac 
chante,  refused  the  challenge,  stalking  dourly  after 
the  capering  Henry,  as  Clara  Morton  turned  the 
buckboard  in  the  direction  of  the  livery-stable. 

Henry  and  Ashton  were  not  the  first  to  enter  the 
dining-room.  Andy  Robb,  dozing  a  little,  sat  in  "his 
chair"  at  the  end  of  the  table  next  the  china-cabinet. 
Sam  Larkin,  harness-oil  staining  the  joints  and 
knuckles  of  his  large  hands,  drew  his  palm  down  his 
chin  and  blinked  at  the  table-cloth.  John  Galley, 
who  was  making  money  with  his  lime-kiln,  frowned 

47 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

autocratically  at  the  school-girl  who  waited  at  this 
table,  and  gave  his  order  with  folded  arms. 

Gaiety  was  prevalent  over  the  earnestness  of 
Oakburn's  dinner-time  in  only  one  corner  of  the 
room.  In  that  quarter,  Percy  Winfield,  the  clerk 
from  the  Pioneer  Store,  was  giving  his  order  to  Miss 
Edith  Taylor,  who  was  "head  waitress."  Percy 
was  the  only  one  in  the  dining-room  who  was  not 
anxious  to  commence  eating;  but  his  unconcern  in 
the  matter  was  more  than  balanced  by  the  scowling 
impatience  of  those  who  waited  at  Miss  Taylor's 
other  two  tables  for  the  tete-a-t£te  to  come  to  an 
end. 

"Edith,"  Mother  Taylor  called,  sharply,  through 
a  round  hole  in  the  door  that  led  to  the  kitchen, 
"quit  visitin'  and  take  them  other  orders." 

Miss  Edith,  waiting  till  the  face  at  the  hole  had 
disappeared,  and  then  cautiously  thrusting  her 
tongue  out  toward  that  point,  stamped  across  to 
the  opposite  table  and  shoved  the  menu-card  under 
the  nose  of  Andy  Robb  so  viciously  that  even  that 
seasoned  and  phlegmatic  person  winced  and  blinked. 

While  she  waited,  her  toe  tapping  the  floor  im 
patiently,  for  the  hotel's  most  devoted  patron  to, 
as  it  were,  draw  a  bead  on  his  chosen  victual,  the 
hall  door  opened  and  Ernie  Bedford,  preceded  by 
Clara  Morton,  entered  the  dining-room.  Miss  Tay 
lor,  with  a  little,  disdainful  glance  at  Clara's  home 
made  dress,  turned  to  the  teacher  and  eyed  him 
up  and  down  with  the  unreserved  Oakburn  stare. 
Ernie,  however,  did  not  glance  her  way;  so  Miss 
Edith  put  up  her  chin  and  pretended,  for  Percy 

48 


THE  ENGLISHMAN 

Winfield's  benefit,  that  she  had  been  merely  look 
ing  out  of  the  window  beyond  the  point  where  the 
teacher  and  Clara  were  crossing  the  floor. 

"Right  here,  School-teacher,"  said  Henry  Nicol, 
munching  a  soda-biscuit  and  beckoning  the  new 
comers  to  the  table  he  had  chosen.  ''Right  here, 
Clara.  Me  an'  Ashton  has  your  chairs  warmed  up 
ready  for  you." 

"Ah,  Miss  Morton!"  Ashton  roused  himself 
from  his  alcoholic  semi-coma  sufficiently  to  cant  his 
head  on  one  side  in  wabbly  playfulness.  "Wazza — • 
wazzin  danzher  being  bored  t'  death.  Timely  'rival 
saved  m'  life.  Thanks-so-much." 

Dinner  in  the  Commerical  Hotel,  once  under  way, 
was  not  a  long  affair.  Potatoes,  meat,  crackers, 
cake,  custard  pudding,  made  rapid  and  business 
like  disappearance,  hastened  to  their  destination  by 
intermittent  draughts  of  tea.  Each  guest — except 
the  aforementioned  Percy  Winfield — progressed  by 
the  swiftest  way  possible  to  the  goal  of  the  tooth 
pick  and  the  staid  and  decorous  withdrawal  to  the 
chairs  and  spittoons  of  the  "settin'-room"  or  the 
petrified  cushions  of  the  "ladies'  parlor";  one  reason 
for  this  haste  being  that  there  were  generally  at 
least  half  a  dozen  more  guests  than  there  were  seats. 


VI 

ON   THE   WAY  TO  ISLAY 

" TRICKLED  to  the  eyebrows,"  soliloquized  Henry 
I  Nicol,  as,  an  hour  later,  he  stood,  thumbs  un 
der  braces,  at  the  corner  of  the  Commerical  Hotel 
and  watched  Ashton — who  had  finally  won  his  way 
in  spite  of  all  Henry 's  diplomacy — drive  off  in  the 
buckboard  with  Clara  Morton.  "Oh,  well,  I  guess 
he's  harmless.  He'd  better  be,  if  he  ain't.  Adam 
Morton  would  tie  him  up  in  a  knot  that  nobody 'd 
ever  ravel  him  out  of,  if  he  was  to  get  sassy  with 
Clara.  If  Adam  didn't,  I  would,  by  Mackinaw!" 

The  teacher,  who  had  gone  over  to  the  station 
to  see  about  his  trunk,  reappeared  at  this  moment 
around  the  corner  of  that  structure.  Henry  con 
templated  him  as  he  descended  from  the  end  of  the 
baggage  platform  and  came  along  the  grassy  path 
toward  the  hotel. 

"Fine,  well-set-up  young  feller,"  he  mused,  taking 
one  thumb  from  its  suspender-loop  and  rubbing  his 
chin  placidly.  "He's  another  party  would  have  a 
crow  to  pick  with  thon  Ashton  if  he  touched  Adam's 
little  gal.  Mackinaw!  ain't  it  queer  how  quick 
young  ones  makes  up?  Him  an*  Clara  'ain't  knew 

So 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  ISLAY 

each  other  more  'n  three  hours  an'  they're  as  chummy 
already  as  an  old  team  o'  horses.  Kind  o'  shy  on 
the  outside,  though,  yet — that's  why  the  boy  didn't 
want  to  drive  out  with  her.  Didn't  want  to  seem 
too  keen,  for  fear  she'd  back  away.  This  here  love's 
a  great  ins'tution.  Both  into  it  up  to  the  neck,  an' 
neither  one  of  'em  knows  it  yet.  .  .  .  Well,  School 
teacher,  I  see  by  your  face  you  ain't  worryin',  so  I 
guess  they  dumped  your  turkey  off  here  all  right, 
eh?  Come  on  inside,  an'  we'll  have  a  couple  o' 
cigars  while  the  broncs  is  finishin'  their  oats." 

"How  far  out  of  town  is  this  Islay  school?"  said 
Ernie,  reverting  to  the  subject  of  his  previous  in 
terest  as  the  two,  in  a  comfortable  halo  of  their  own 
making,  sat  side  by  side  in  the  hotel  sitting-room 
on  two  of  the  now  vacated  wooden  chairs  that  stood 
in  a  faded  row  near  the  window. 

"Ten  miles  or  so,"  said  Henry  Nicol,  looking  back 
at  the  teacher  imperturbably. 

"What's  the  attendance?" 

"Oh,  there's  from  a  dozen  to  twenty.  Bad  young 
eggs,  thon  outfit,  boy.  I  wouldn't  teach  them," 
Henry  finished,  earnestly,  "for  a  hundred  dollars 
a  day." 

Ernie  squared  his  shoulders.  "Well,  I'll  teach 
them,"  he  said,  "or  die  in  the  attempt." 

"Oh,  I  guess  it  ain't  quite  as  bad  as  that,"  Henry 
observed,  closing  one  eye  and  regarding  the  teacher 
through  the  other,  which  twinkled  irrepressibly ; 
"your  life  is  safe  enough,  School-teacher.  It  ain't 
so  much  a  case  o'  dyin'  as  bein'  put  out  o'  doors 
some  mornin'  an'  the  door  locked  on  you,  with  the 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

whole  herd  of  'em  standin'  and  sassin'  you  through 
the  windows." 

The  talk  of  the  two  was  interrupted  at  this  mo 
ment  by  a  distant  hum  of  conversation  outside  the 
hotel.  Up  Railway  Avenue  a  man  came  leading  a 
black  horse  hitched  to  one  of  the  livery  rigs.  He 
was  a  very  big  man,  with  great,  square,  blue-shirted 
shoulders,  and  wrists  covered  with  black  hair. 

"Neil  Collingwood,  the  constable,"  explained 
Henry,  craning  out  of  the  window.  "Something 
has  broke  loose.  Watch  the  crowd." 

The  big  man  was  speaking,  and  the  sound  of  his 
voice  came  across  the  street  in  a  low  rumble. 

"He  says,"  Henry  Nicol  reported,  from  beneath 
the  partially  raised  window-sash,  "that  Bill  Hunt, 
that  crazy  homesteader,  has  chased  Harrisons  out 
of  their  house  with  an  ax.  Dug  Harrison — the  eld 
est  boy — has  just  come  into  town  on  his  herd-pony, 
lickety-tizzle.  He  says  his  ma's  standin'  in  the 
middle  of  a  slough,  nursin'  the  baby.  Bill  will  never 
go  near  the  water  when  he  takes  them  bughouse 
streaks." 

"Why  don't  they  lock  him  up?"  said  the  teacher, 
throwing  away  his  cigar-butt  and  getting  up  to 
look  out  of  the  window.  "Pretty  dangerous  man, 
isn't  he,  'to  leave  at  large  like  that?" 

"You  bet  he's  a  dangerous  man,"  Henry  replied, 
as  he  drew  his  head  in  the  window;  "that's  why 
they  made  Neil  constable.  The  other  constable 
was  a-scared  o'  Bill.  Neil  ain't,  though.  Neil  he'd 
eat  ol'  Bill  up,  ax  an'  all,  and  holler  for  more. 
Say,  I'm  goin'  to  hitch  up  an'  foller  Neil's  buggy 

52 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  ISLAY 

out.  It  ain't  far  from  Tom's,  the  place  he's  goin' 
to,  and  we  may  see  some  fun  when  he's  arrestin' 
Bill." 

The  teacher  put  on  his  hat,  and  the  two  walked 
down  to  the  livery-stable.  Henry  Nicol  brought 
out  the  team. 

"I'd  like  to  get  a  little  head-start,"  he  said,  as 
he  snapped  the  breast-straps  home,  "so's  we  won't 
have  to  drive  so  fast.  Old  Pat  here,  he  don't  stand 
travelin'  very  good.  However,  that  black  't  Neil's 
got  wun't  go  very  fast,  I  guess.  Hook  up  thon  other 
trace,  Teacher.  Now  jump  in."  Henry  gathered 
up  the  lines  and  climbed  bustlingly  to  the  spring- 
seat.  "I  got  to  go  'round  to  the  Commercial  for 
Jim  Dover.  I  seen  where  they'd  throwed  him  out, 
as  I  come  by  just  now.  The  flies  is  settlin'  on  him 
something  mis'able;  they'd  have  him  et  before 
night." 

The  horses  trotted  heavily  around  to  the  side 
door  of  the  Commercial  Hotel.  Neil  Collingwood, 
the  puissant  constable,  still  stood  by  the  buggy, 
holding  the  black  horse  and  looking  a  little  cross. 

"He  can't  get  nobody  to  go  out  with  him  to  drive 
the  hoss  coming  back,"  explained  a  bystander  to 
Henry.  "The  young  fellow  who  come  in  on  the 
pony  says  ol'  Bill's  got  a  gun  in  his  house.  He  slung 
the  ax  an'  knocked  young  Dug's  cap  off.  Then  he 
went  home  for  the  gun.  That's  why  Dug  come 
away." 

"What  about  his  ma,"  said  Henry  Nicol,  "down 
there  in  the  slough  holdin'  the  baby?" 

"Oh,   she'll  be  all  right,"   the  bystander   said 

5  53 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

"By  the  time  Bill  gets  the  gun  hell  forget  who  it 
was  he  was  after.  Most  likely  he'll  shoot  whoever's 
handiest — prob'ly  that  Barnardo  boy  that's  workin* 
for  him,  or  else  one  o'  his  hogs." 

"I  hope  it  ain't  little  Ratty  he  shoots,"  said  Henry 
Nicol,  as  he  slid  off  the  seat  of  the  wagon;  "that 
B'nardo  ain't  a  bad  head,  Peter,  as  them  English 
lads  goes.  He  lent  me  a  chew  o'  tobacco,  the  last 
one  he  had,  that  time  I  had  the  jumpin'  toothache 
up  at  Tom's.  You  mind  the  time  I  come  a-peltin' 
into  town  last  fall  to  get  it  drew  out,  'most  dead 
from  that  ol'  roan  Charley-horse's  back  an'  the 
toothache  put  together?  Give  us  a  hand  with  Jim 
here,  Pete." 

They  went  over  to  where  Jim  Dover  lay,  spread- 
eagled,  his  toes  together  in  the  grass  and  his  heels 
turned  out.  Henry  tucked  the  quart  bottle  more 
securely  into  the  hip  pocket  from  which  it  had 
nearly  worked  out,  brushed  the  mosquitoes  from  the 
back  of  Jim  Dover's  neck,  and  hoisted  him  up  by 
the  shoulders. 

"He's  limber  like  a  jellyfish,"  said  Peter,  as 
they  hoisted  their  load  arduously  into  the  wagon- 
box,  which  Henry  Nicol  had  floored  with  hay  from 
the  livery-stable. 

"Yes,  he's  parrlyzed  all  right,"  said  Henry,  as 
he  carefully  pushed  the  newly  sharpened  plow 
share  away  from  Jim  Dover's  face;  "but  we  don't 
want  him  a-rubbin'  the  edge  off  that  sheer  with  his 
nose,  do  we,  School-teacher?  Well,  so-long,  Pete. 
We  got  to  be  goin'." 

Henry  climbed  into  the  wagon,  caught  up  the 

54 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  ISLAY 

lines,  tickled  Baby  Mike  with  the  whip,  and  the 
wagon  rumbled  away  toward  the  country  trail. 

Ernie  Bedford,  going  out  to  teach  his  first  school, 
was  just  old  enough  to  feel  that  he  was  the  heir  of 
all  the  ages,  and  just  young  enough  to  feel  sure  he 
was  generally  recognized  as  such.  The  recent  din 
ner,  now  well  and  truly  digested;  the  Commerical 
Hotel  cigar  which  he  had  smoked  successfully,  and 
the  stump  of  which  he  had  thrown  away  even  with 
regret;  the  bland  atmosphere  exhaling  from  Henry 
Nicol — all  genial  influences  seemed  to  have  com 
bined  to  make  him  feel  like  a  king  out  for  a  jaunt 
through  his  dominions. 

His  trunk,  which  had  been  pulled  forward  under 
the  wagon-seat  to  make  room  for  the  cataleptic 
Jim  Dover,  contained,  among  more  or  less  useful 
articles  of  personal  adornment,  his  professional 
books,  his  diploma  in  an  envelope,  and  a  certain 
grim  and  persuasive  teaching  utensil  known  as  a 
rubber  strap.  Ernie's  head  was  swollen,  or  felt  so, 
with  its  unimparted  erudition;  and  in  his  soul  was 
an  appetite  for  autocracy.  He  blew  a  hair  out  of  his 
eye  and  looked  balefully  over  the  hills  toward  Islay. 

There  came  from  behind  the  hammer  of  a  long- 
legged  and  splay-hoofed  trot;  and  the  constable,  in 
his  buggy,  turned  out  and  slowly  passed  alongside. 

"Makin'  good  time,  Neil,"  called  Henry  Nicol, 
remarking  to  the  teacher  as  the  buggy  passed  over 
the  hill:  "Neil's  got  that  black  of  Archie's  footin' 
it  out  there  faster  'n  he  ever  knew  hisself  or  any  other 
horse  ever  had  to  go,  except  to  a  prairie  fire  or  bring- 
in'  a  man  in  to  vote." 

55 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

The  colt  Mike  responded  with  alacrity  to  a  light 
drawing  of  the  whip-lash  down  his  flank;  and  the 
big  team  broke  into  a  shambling  trot. 

"Aw,  'tain't  a  bit  o'  use,  this  here,"  said  Henry, 
presently,  as  he  pulled  the  horses  down  to  a  walk 
again.  "Can't  kill  my  team  f'r  the  sake  o'  seein' 
ol'  Bill  Hunt  gathered  in.  Steady,  Mikie!  Steady, 
boy!  Why,  look!  Where  'n  the  thunder  'n'  blazes 
is  Jim?" 

The  teacher,  following  Henry  Nicol's  glance  over 
his  shoulder,  looked  into  the  wagon-box  behind.  It 
was  empty,  except  for  a  few  loose  wisps  of  hay. 

"He's  gone,"  said  Henry  Nicol,  standing  up  and 
peering  back  along  the  trail;  "he's  gone,  'an'  taken 
the  backboard  an'  that  box  o'  groc'ries  with  him, 
an'  half  the  hay." 

"Is  he  going  to  camp  somewhere?"  suggested  the 
teacher,  vaguely. 

"He's  a-campin'  somewhere  in  the  middle  of  the 
trail  back  there,"  said  Henry  Nicol,  "with  his  nose 
in  the  dust  an'  his  rump  in  the  air.  The  backboard's 
shook  out  while  we  was  a- trot  tin*  there,  tryin'  to 
catch  Neil,  an'  Jim's  rolled  out.  We'll  have  to 
drive  back  an'  pick  him  up  b'fore  somebody  runs 
over  him  an'  squashes  him." 

They  found  Jim  Dover  in  pretty  much  the  atti 
tude  described  by  Henry  Nicol.  His  face  was  cov 
ered  with  dust,  his  head  and  shoulders  under  him, 
in  the  position  of  a  half -turned  somersault. 

"Well,  Jim,"  said  the  teacher,  familiarly,  with 
what  he  considered  the  tactful  idea  of  averting  any 
expression  of  displeasure,  "how  do  you  sagashiate?" 

56 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  ISLAY 

He  hesitated,  as  Jim  Dover  did  not  reply,  and  side 
stepped  a  little. 

"That's  all  right,  Teacher,"  reassured  Henry 
Nicol,  as  he  took  hold  of  a  leg  and  straightened  Jim 
Dover  out,  "you  can  say  anything  you  like  to  him 
now.  Come  on — let's  give  him  a  hoost  in.  Yo — 
heave!  There!  he's  all  right." 

"Jim  Dover,"  said  Henry,  as  he  took  up  the  lines 
and  the  teacher  pantingly  clambered  up  beside  him 
again  on  the  spring-seat,  "is  one  o'  the  best  ol' 
heads  around  this  section  of  the  country.  But  he 
ust  to  run  arrants  for  a  liquor-store  when  he  was 
a  young  shaver,  an'  that  was  th'  ruination  o'  Jim." 

John  Beamish  stood  in  his  doorway,  with  his  right 
forefinger  pushing  up  his  mustache  and  his  left  thumb 
hooked  under  his  braces,  as  Henry  Nicol  turned  in 
at  his  gate. 

"Put  'm  in  the  grennery  till  mornin',"  he  said, 
unconcernedly,  as  he  came  and  looked  over  the  side 
of  the  wagon-box.  A  litter  was  forthwith  made  out 
of  two  rails  and  a  horse-blanket,  and  upon  it  Jim 
was  conveyed  and  deposited  with  a  "plop"  into  a 
yellow  bin  of  last  season's  wheat. 

It  might  well  have  been  imagined  that  Jim  Dover's 
bronchial  appeal,  as  they  prepared  to  leave  him, 
made  the  ridge-pole  of  the  granary  lift  a  little.  He 
celebrated  the  improvement  in  his  position  with  a 
festive  burst  of  snoring. 

"You'd  ought  to  gaffle  that  bottle  on  him,  Jack," 
advised  Henry  Nicol,  as  he  leaned  on  the  side  of  the 
bin  and  took  a  chew  of  tobacco.  ' '  He'd  hammer  the 
neck  off'n  it  agen'  thon  scantlin'  an'  have  another 

57 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

snort,  right  away,  if  it  was  there  in  his  pocket  when 
he  come  to." 

"Yes,  an*  spill  it  in  my  wheat  an1  start  the  whole 
bin  of  grain  a-heatin',"  said  John  Beamish,  as  he 
transferred  the  bottle  from  Jim  Dover's  hip  pocket 
to  his  own. 

"He  wouldn't  spill  none  of  it,"  said  Henry  Nicol, 
looking  a  little  coquettishly  at  the  bottle  in  its  new 
location.  "No,  sir,  he  wouldn't  mislay  a  drop. 
Ol'  Jim!" 

They  passed  out  of  the  granary,  and  John  Beamish 
bolted  the  door  on  the  outside. 

"He'll  snore  away  there  like  a  hull  gang  o' 
thrashers  till  about  sunup,"  said  Henry  Nicol  to 
the  teacher,  as  they  returned  to  the  wagon;  "then 
he'll  be  up,  bright  an'  sassy,  a-hammerin'  on  the 
door  to  get  out  to  his  broncs  an'  his  stubble- 
plow." 

John  Beamish,  with  a  sort  of  inexpressive  com 
pliance  with  the  canons  of  prairie  hospitality,  saw 
the  two  to  the  wagon. 

"Is  this  the  new  school-teacher,  Hank?"  he  said, 
pushing  his  hat  back  and  turning  upon  Ernie  the 
furtive  look  of  non-acquaintance. 

"Why,  'scuse  me!"  exclaimed  Henry,  who  had 
been  about  to  get  into  the  wagon,  as  he  took  his 
foot  off  the  hub  of  the  front  wheel  and  turned 
around.  * '  I  never  give  yous  two  no  knock-down  yit, 
did  I?  Make  you  'quainted  with  Jack  Beamish, 
School-teacher.  Shake  hands." 

The  moment  these  preliminaries  were  over,  John 
Beamish  turned  about,  made  a  kind  of  megaphone  of 

58 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  ISLAY 

his  two  hands,  and  shouted  toward  the  house  door, 
"Mab-el!" 

A  figure,  aproned  and  buxom,  that  had  been 
standing  in  the  doorway,  answered  in  a  higher  key: 
"Whatchawant,  poh?  I'm  in  my  bare  feet." 

''Well,  get  your  stockin's  an'  boots  on  an'  come 
here,"  John  Beamish  bawled  across  the  gloaming. 
"I  want  you  t'  meet  the  noo  school-teacher." 

A  dawdling  twenty  minutes  followed.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  there  was  an  emergence  from  the  house 
door,  a  leisurely  peregrination  down  the  path,  and 
out  of  the  gathering  shadows  walked  a  girl  of  about 
eighteen.  She  held  her  head  a  little  on  one  side 
and  looked  at  Ernie  Bedford  out  of  the  corner  of 
her  eye.  It  was  too  dark  for  Ernie  Bedford  to  form 
any  impression  except  that  she  seemed  coquettishly 
inclined. 

John  Beamish's  introduction  was  epic.  "This  is 
the  new  teacher,  Mabel,"  he  said.  "School-teacher, 
this  is  my  daughter  Mabel.  She  didn't  learn  nothin' 
from  the  last  teacher,  an'  I  took  her  from  school. 
He  wanted  to  marry  her." 

A  sudden  chortle  from  Henry  Nicol,  which  he  con 
verted  into  a  sneeze,  sounded  from  the  wagon-seat. 
Miss  Mabel  Beamish  tossed  her  head,  put  her  chin 
in  the  air,  and,  looking  down  the  bridge  of  her  nose 
at  Bedford  as  he  lifted  his  hat,  clipped  her  response 
to  an  arctic,  "'D'  y'  doo?" 

Later,  as  the  hungry  team  jogged  at  a  trot  along 
the  last  half-mile  of  the  way  to  the  Kernaghan 
farm,  Henry  Nicol  drifted  into  details. 

"The  last  teacher,"  he  said,  "was  a  dam'  fool. 

59 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

This  here  Mabel  Beamish  thinks  she's  the  hull  thing 
because  her  dad's  got  a  little  money  an'  served  as 
reeve  of  the  municipality  about  six  years  ago.  She 
ain't  bad-lookin',  but  she's  ter'bal  conceity.  She 
didn't  care  nothin'  fur  the  last  teacher.  She  don't 
give  a  continental  fur  nobody  livin'  except  herself. 
She  takes  after  Jack — she's  a  chunk  out  o'  the  ol' 
log,  all  right. 

"Well,  the  last  teacher  ust  to  walk  home  with 
her  from  school  every  night.  She  was  that  flirty 
he  thought  she  meant  business.  I  b'lieve  she  more 
'n  half  give  him  to  understand  that  she  would  marry 
him  if  he'd  ast  her.  Anyway,  one  night  he  got  her 
alone,  after  school,  an'  up  an'  kissed  her — dam*  if 
he  didn't.  Well,  they  was  a  ter'bal  hullabaloo. 
Jack  took  his  girl  out  o1  school  an'  they  fired  the 
teacher. 

"I  was  sorry  for  him.  He  would  have  went  away 
busted,  for  he'd  blown  in  all  his  money  on  things 
for  this  Mabel  article,  if  I  hadn't  'a'  lent  him  a  ten- 
spot.  Fine,  friendly  young  galoot,  an'  he  sent  me 
it  back,  all  right,  with  five  more  onto  it.  I  think 
his  ol'  man's  pretty  well  off.  Jack  didn't  know 
that,  or  likely  he  wouldn't  have  kicked  up  such  a 
dust  about  the  teacher  kissin'  his  girl.  But  most 
teachers  is  poor  as  crows,  an'  I  suppose  Jack  never 
thought  about  it." 

"What's  he  so  anxious  to  have  me  know  her  for, 
I  wonder,  then?"  inquired  Ernie  Bedford. 

"Eh?"  said  Henry,  who  had  been  thinking  about 
Ernie's  predecessor.  "Oh,  thon's  just  a  little 
scheme  o'  Jack's.  F'r  one  thing,  he  wanted  to  show 

60 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  ISLAY 

you  he  meant  business  an'  that  he  wasn't  goin* 
to  marry  his  girl  to  no  school-teacher;  an'  then  he 
thought  if  you  seen  her  first  you'd  be  more  took  with 
her — more  int 'rested  in  her,  like — than  the  rest  of 
the  scholars,  an'  he  would  get  more  educatin'  out 
of  you  for  the  same  money  the  rest  is  pay  in'.  Jack's 
long-headed.  A  man  would  have  to  get  up  early 
in  the  morning  to  get  ahead  of  thon  Jack  Beamish." 

The  light  rattle  of  a  buggy  came  down  from  the 
top  of  the  hill  the  wagon  was  climbing.  The  traces 
and  doubletree  were  held  from  rattling  by  the  down 
ward  pull  of  the  heavy  wagon  in  which  Henry  and 
the  teacher  sat,  and  the  light  bounce  and  whir  of 
the  buggy  wheels  could  be  heard  plainly  as  it  drew 
near. 

"I'll  bet  thon's  Neil,"  said  Henry  Nicol,  in  some 
excitement.  "Yes,  sir,  Teacher,  it's  him.  Look- 
see!"  as  a  little  light  sprang  up  in  the  quiet  night 
air,  showing  the  faces  of  three  men.  "He's  got 
aholt  of  olf  Bill  by  the  scruff  of  his  neck  with  one 
hand  an'  a-lightin'  his  pipe  with  th'  other.  Neil's 
as  strong  as  a  horse,  by  golly!" 

The  light  of  the  match,  sheltered  in  front  by  the 
constable's  big  hand,  shone  out  sidewise  upon  a 
queer  old  face  with  thin  strands  of  hair  falling  over 
the  forehead,  and  hat  pushed  awry.  The  face  was 
whiskered  like  Grimalkin;  and  in  the  glare  of  the 
match  two  small  red  eyes  went  from  side  to  side. 

"Crazy  as  a  bedbug,"  said  Henry,  attentively. 
"I'm  tryin'  to  think  what  it  is  they  say  oF  Bill's 
got.  Oh!  humstead  insanity;  that's  it.  He's 
bached  it  too  long  by  himself,  out  there  in  that 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

spooky  ol*  shanty  o'  his'n.  I  ain't  shuperstitious, 
Teacher;  but  if  I  was  even  just  passin'  that  place 
o'  Bill's  after  dark,  I'd  run  like  a  deer,  so  I  would. 
.  .  .  Hey,  Neil!  Got  th'  ol'  man  safe,  eh?" 

Neil  Collingwood  grunted,  with  the  uncommuni- 
cativeness  that  sits  so  becomingly  on  the  law  incar 
nate,  and  the  buggy  bumped  past  into  the  night. 

"He's  got  that  young  Geordie  Cooper  a-drivin' 
the  buggy  for  him,"  said  Henry  Nicol.  "Well,  I 
guess  Mis'  Harrison's  glad  ol'  Bill's  gone.  She 
'ain't  b'en  able  to  get  no  sleep,  nights,  for  fear  of  a 
cordwood  stick  or  somethin'  a-comin'  through  the 
window  onto  the  baby.  Harrisons  lives  about  a 
mile  or  so  this  side  o'  Bill's  place.  .  .  .  Well,  here  we 
are,  Teacher,  at  last.  Thon's  Tom  Kernaghan 
a-comin'  down  to  the  stable  with  the  lantern.  I 
guess  them  cows  is  milked  by  this  time." 

Mr.  Thomas  Kernaghan  was  a  long,  quiet  man, 
with  an  inscrutable  aspect  of  narrowed  eyes  and 
black  whiskers.  This,  at  least,  was  how  the  lan 
tern  showed  him  as  he  lifted  it  to  the  level  of  his 
chest  and  cocked  an  eyebrow  at  the  teacher. 

"Good  evenin'  to  you,  Teacher-man,"  he  said, 
after  a  long  and  cool  survey.  He  shifted  the  lantern 
to  his  left  hand,  and  extended  the  other  with  a 
slow  movement.  Ernie  Bedford  thought  of  a 
blacksmith's  vise  as  they  shook  hands. 

"Well,  thame  cows  is  milked,  Henry  Nicol,"  said 
Mr.  Kernaghan  to  his  man,  as  he  led  the  teacher 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  house;  "but  there's 
a  half  a  cord  of  wood  to  buck  when  ye  get  sup 
per  et." 

62 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  ISLAY 

"I'll  hustle  a  hull  cord,  if  you  like,"  said  Henry 
Nicol,  unhitching  his  team,  "'s  long  as  thon  Daisy 
cow  is  milked.  She  kicked  the  daylights  out  o' 
me,  last  time  I  set  down  to  her,  Tom." 

"Well,  new  Teacher,"  said  Mr.  Kernaghan,  de 
liberately,  as  they  went  along  the  path  to  the  house, 
"is  it  teachin'  ye're  here  for,  or  to  spark  th'  girls, 
like  the  last  man  we  had?  Ye  don't  look  very  old 
yit." 

"I  am  here  in  the  interests  of  pedagogy,"  said 
Ernie  Bedford,  stiffly,  "and  not  for  nonsense." 

"Well,  I  hope  ye  are,  boy,"  said  Mr.  Kernaghan; 
"that's  what  we  b'en  wantin'." 

They  went  into  the  house.  Mrs.  Kernaghan,  a 
little  sharp-eyed  woman,  dried  a  hand  from  her  dish 
washing  and  gave  it  to  the  teacher  with  more  of  a 
stare  than  a  smile.  Miss  Jennie  Kernaghan,  who 
had  her  father's  twinkle,  gave  him  a  little  bob  of 
her  head  and  a  side  glance  full  of  mischief.  Jennie 
was  about  fifteen.  George  Kernaghan,  who  looked 
sharp  and  quarrelsome,  glanced  up  in  mutinous  si 
lence.  Willie  Kernaghan  stared  in  a  non-committal 
way. 

"I  s'pose  ye  ain't  hungry?"  said  Mr.  Kernaghan, 
as  the  teacher,  his  mouth  watering  involuntarily, 
glanced  toward  the  supper-table.  "Set  down  to 
the  table,  annyway,  an'  do  th'  best  ye  can.  What 
ever  ye  don't  see  that  ye  want,  jump  on  th'  missis 
about  it.  I  got  to  go  an'  tell  Henry  the  wood  is 
all  bucked  an'  I  was  just  foolin'  him,  or  he'll  start 
in  an'  massacree  five  or  six  logs  before  he  comes  in. 
Henry  ahlways  likes  to  have  nothin'  on  his  mind 

63 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

when  he  sets  down  to  his  supper.     'Tis  that  has 
kept  him  healthy,  he  says." 

Ernie  Bedford  sat  down  to  fried  pork  and  potatoes, 
hot  biscuits  and  apricot  sauce.  Mrs.  Kernaghan 
went  on  with  her  pan- washing,  proceeding  with 
sharp  little  movements  and  occasionally  glancing  at 
the  teacher  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye.  Miss 
Jennie  sat  on  an  upturned  wooden  pail,  regarding 
her  future  tutor  in  naive  appraisement,  her  chin 
propped  in  her  hands.  Master  George  Kernaghan 
leaned  on  the  window-sill,  digging  his  jack-knife 
into  it  with  vicious  little  stabs,  and  not  looking  at  the 
teacher  at  all.  Master  William  still  continued  to  stare. 

"Have  you  ever  taught  before?"  Mrs.  Kernaghan 
thrust  at  Ernie  Bedford,  presently. 

"This  is  my  first  school,"  Ernie  answered,  but 
tering  a  biscuit  and  pulling  the  dish  of  stewed  apri 
cots  toward  him.  The  sharp  edge  was  rapidly 
coming  off  his  appetite. 

"Well,  now!"  Mrs.  Kernaghan  sniffed  as  she 
wrung  out  her  cloth.  "So  you're  going  to  learn  on 
my  children,  eh?" 

Ernie  glanced  at  her  with  a  little  start,  dropping 
his  biscuit. 

"Don't  ye  mind  the  missis,"  said  Mr.  Kernaghan, 
coming  in  at  this  moment  with  Henry  Nicol;  "there's 
no  satisfy  in'  her." 

Mrs.  Kernaghan  turned  around  briskly,  pointing 
her  finger  into  Mr.  Kernaghan's  long,  imperturbable 
face. 

"You're  a  trustee,"  she  rapped  out,  shrilly; 
"then  why— " 

64 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  ISLAY 

" George,  boy,"  said  Mr.  Kernaghan,  suddenly,  but 
very  gently,  ''come  here  to  me." 

George  drew  his  knife-blade  out  of  the  window- 
sill  and  came,  with  some  hesitation. 

"Do  ye  like  cuttin'  thon  window,  son?"  inquired 
Mr.  Kernaghan,  drawing  off  a  boot,  setting  it  in 
the  corner  behind  him,  and  leaning  forward  a  little, 
with  his  hands  on  his  knees. 

George  looked  at  his  father.  "Maybe,"  he  said, 
decoyed  into  impudence  by  the  cordial  expression 
on  his  questioner's  face. 

"Then,"  said  Mr.  Kernaghan,  taking  him  swiftly 
by  the  collar  and  drawing  him  across  one  knee, 
"maybe  ye'll  like  what  I'm  goin'  to  give  ye  for  cuttin' 
th'  window,  too.  Jinny,  hand  me  over  thon  hame- 
strap." 

"Don't  you  go  pounding  my  boys!"  screamed  Mrs. 
Kernaghan,  throwing  down  her  cloth  and  coming 
across  the  room. 

"I'll  give  ye  some  for  yourself  in  a  minute,"  said 
Mr.  Kernaghan,  grinningly,  as  he  plied  the  hame- 
strap  to  the  tune  of  George's  yells  and  squirmings. 

"Now,  then,  George,"  he  said,  finally,  as  the 
son,  released,  hopped  about  before  him  in  a  howl 
ing  circle,  both  hands  spread  over  the  locality  of 
the  smart,  "go  back  an'  cut  the  window  if  ye  like 
it — 'maybe.'  An'  I'll  give  ye  no  more  than  th' 
half  of  a  minute  to  stop  th'  rumpus,  son.  The  half 
of  a  minute,  mind!" 

George  subsided,  gulping  and  blinking,  and 
stamped  outside.  Master  William  followed,  staring 
his  condolence. 

65 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

" Missis,'*  said  Mr.  Kernaghan,  as  he  hung  up 
the  strap,  "you  go  easy  with  them  pans,  'r  you'll  be 
the  next." 

Henry  Nicol  had  joined  Ernie  Bedford  at  the  table. 
"This  pork  goes  good,"  he  had  remarked,  uncon 
cernedly,  not  even  looking  around  during  the  cor 
rection  of  Master  George.  "It  don't  hardly  seem 
even  off  the  same  pig  as  what  I  et  this  mornin'. 
How  you  comin'  up?" 

"You  let  your  hired  help  loaf  around  town  all 
day!"  snapped  Mrs.  Kernaghan,  scouring  the 
strainer-pail,  "an'  you  bring  half-baked  boys  out 
here  to  play  at  teaching — " 

"Tut,  tut!"  said  Mr.  Kernaghan,  his  pipe  in  the 
side  of  his  mouth,  cutting  tobacco  into  his  palm. 
"Do  ye  smoke,  Teacher?" 

Mrs.  Kernaghan  paused  for  the  answer. 

"A  little,"  said  Ernie  Bedford,  pushing  back  his 
chair  and  reaching  into  his  pocket  for  his  pipe. 

"There!"  said  Mrs.  Kernaghan,  throwing  out  her 
hand.  "There,  then,  Tom!  You  hear  that?  He 
smokes!  A  teacher!  Smokes!" 

"Ye're  right,  he  smokes,"  said  Mr.  Kernaghan, 
wrinkling  the  whole  side  of  his  whiskered  face  in  a 
wink  at  Ernie,  who  sat  in  a  boyishly  embarrassed 
way,  half -doubtful  whether  to  put  his  pipe  back  in 
his  pocket  or  not;  "but  that  '11  not  hurt  him  for 
educatin',  will  it,  School-teacher?  How  would  ye 
like  to  have  the  missis  for  a  trustee  ?  Here,  take  th' 
full  o'  y'r  pipe  out  of  this."  Mr.  Kernaghan  tossed 
into  the  young  man's  lap  the  end  of  the  plug  from 
which  he  had  cut  his  own  pipeful. 

66 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  ISLAY 

Ernie,  carefully  averting  his  face  from  Mrs. 
Kernaghan's  critical  glare,  tilted  his  head  down  till 
the  wisp  of  hairs  on  his  scalp  stood  tip  perpendicularly, 
and  redly  cut  from  the  tobacco-plug  enough  to  fill 
the  newly  blackened  pipe  stuck  at  an  awkward  angle 
in  one  corner  of  his  mouth. 


VII 

CLARA   MORTON    AT   HOME 

LITTLE  Mrs.  Kernaghan,  with  her  wiry,  bowed 
shoulders  and  shrill  fault-finding,  proved  to  be 
one  of  those  noisy  hen-sparrow  homemakers  who  say 
a  lot  more  than  they  mean;  for  Ernie  Bedford  had 
never,  even  at  home,  slept  in  a  bed  more  comfort 
able  than  the  one  she  made  up  for  him  in  the  newly 
scrubbed  and  airy  upper  room  of  the  Kernaghan 
farm-house. 

He  arose  from  it  next  morning  with  a  jerk  of  his 
shoulders,  a  stretching  overhead  of  his  strong  young 
arms,  and  a  thrust  of  his  fingers  through  his  hair; 
stripped  off  the  jacket  of  his  pa  jama  suit;  thudded 
barefoot  across  the  room  to  the  blue-flowered  basin 
and  jug  of  cool  rain-water;  and  was  presently 
stooped  and  splashing  in  the  center  of  an  aqueous 
mist  like  that  of  a  spaniel  shaking  itself  after  a 
swim. 

The  smell  of  witch-hazel  from  the  soap-cake  lying 
wet  in  its  dish  pervaded  the  room  as  the  teacher,  a 
moment  later,  moved  to  the  window,  drying  him 
self  briskly  with  the  red-fringed  towel,  and  looked 
out  upon  his  blue-and-green  first  Sunday  in  Islay 

68 


CLARA  MORTON  AT  HOME 

district.  With  his  first  glance  at  the  sweet  scope 
of  grove  and  hillock  he  fell  pensive,  but  not  from  con 
templation  of  the  buds  and  buttercups  of  May.  In 
his  memory  bobbed  up  a  little  face,  the  eyes  brown 
and  motherly,  the  nose  crossed  at  the  bridge  with 
dainty  pin-points  of  freckles  that  accentuated  the 
clearness  of  the  skin.  Which  of  the  houses,  nestling 
distant  and  white  in  the  bits  of  woodland  along  the 
horizon  rim,  held  the  little  lady  of  the  buckboard? 
Had  she  dreamed  of  him,  as  he  had  dreamed  all 
night  of  her? 

Henry  Nicol,  standing  alongside  old  Pat,  straight 
ened  up,  stripping  the  horsehair  from  his  currycomb, 
as  Ernie  Bedford  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the 
Kernaghan  stable. 

"Well,  School-teacher,"  he  said,  pushing  his  hat 
back  and  coming  out  of  the  stall  with  the  wombat 
whiskers  bulging  genially  at  the  corners  of  his 
mouth,  "was  you  bit  much  last  night?" 

"Bit?"  Ernie  stared,  then  grinned.  "Oh  no, 
nothing  like  that." 

"I  guess  they  'ain't  got  to  know  you  yet,"  ob 
served  Henry,  as  he  laid  the  horse-brush  and  curry 
comb  in  a  little  box  of  bottles  and  buckles  and 
horsy  odds  and  ends;  "they're  kind  of  shy  with 
strangers." 

"You'd  be  shy  of  breakfast,"  said  Ernie,  sitting 
down  on  the  feed-box,  "if  Mrs.  Kernaghan  was  to 
hear  you  talking  about  her  nice  clean  bed  that  way." 

"I  know  what  you're  goin'  to  ast  me  about,"  con 
tinued  Henry,  irrelevantly,  "just  as  well  as  if  you'd 
hollered  your  question  at  me  when  you  was  only 
6  69 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

half-ways  down  to  the  stable,  like  you  wanted  to 
do.  Come  on  up  to  that  high  bump  of  ground  be 
hind  the  milk-house,  then,  and  I'll  show  you  where 
she  lives." 

Ernie  avoided  the  demure  gray  eye  that  sought 
his  as  he  arose  from  the  box  and  followed  Henry 
Nicol  up  the  hill. 

"Why  didn't  you  get  Tom,  up  there  in  the  shed, 
to  show  you?"  queried  Henry,  as  they  paused  behind 
the  milk-house,  surveying  the  teacher  twinklingly  and 
drawing  a  big  sunburnt  hand  down  his  whiskers, 
"instead  of  coming  all  the  way  down  to  the  stable 
to  me?  You  thought  he'd  likely  say  somethin' 
about  sparkin'  the  girls,  didn't  you?  Eh,  School 
teacher?" 

"Maybe  you  know  what  you're  talking  about," 
said  Ernie,  redly.  "I  don't.  Now  what's  this  you 
were  going  to  show  me?" 

"I  was  a-goin'  to  show  you  that  hen-hawk  over 
there,"  said  Henry  Nicol,  pointing  with  a  long  arm 
and  extended,  knotty  forefinger  to  a  soaring  dot 
above  a  poplar-grove  to  the  southward.  "It's 
huntin'  for  chickens,  like  you  are.  There's  one 
just  below  it,  where  you  see  that  chimley  and  roof 
at  the  edge  of  the  scrub.  Are  you  goin'  over  there 
now,  or  can  you  wait  till  after  breakfast?" 

The  trail  from  Tom  Kernaghan's  place  to  the  farm 
of  Adam  Morton,  toward  which  Ernie  found  himself 
trudging  briskly  an  hour  and  a  half  later,  led  past 
the  stony  quarter-section  where  Adam  had  home- 
steaded  when  he  first  came  West  (at  which  time,  as 
he  was  wont  to  point  out  in  extenuation  of  his  bad 

70 


CLARA  MORTON  AT  HOME 

choice  of  land,  he  hardly  "knew  a  plow  from  a  har 
row"). 

Before  he  became  a  farmer  Adam  Morton  had 
been  a  locomotive  engineer;  and  it  was  a  railway 
accident,  which  had  sobered  and  saddened  the  big 
man  for  life,  that  had  been  the  cause  of  the  change 
in  vocation.  On  the  stony  farm  he  had  labored  with 
little  result,  until  a  more  alert  neighbor  had  reminded 
him  of  the  homesteader's  pre-emption  privilege  and 
had  helped  him  to  choose  a  pre-emption  that  was 
fertile,  clear  of  stones,  and  nearly  all  arable.  With 
the  new  farm,  and  the  lime-kiln  which  he  had  built 
on  the  old  stony  quarter  (another  suggestion  of  the 
shrewd  and  kindly  neighbor's),  Adam  had  improved 
his  prospects  considerably,  and  was  now,  in  fact, 
"doing  well" — perhaps  not  so  well  as  farmers  like 
the  calculating  and  rigidly  thrifty  John  Beamish, 
but  at  any  rate  paying  his  way,  with  a  modest  sur 
plus  each  fall  to  add  to  his  hard-won  bank  account. 

The  kiln  was  dug  in  the  slope  of  a  steep  little 
knoll  that  faced  the  trail;  and  Ernie,  approaching 
along  the  stony  wheel-rut,  saw  a  broad  figure  sitting 
contemplatively  at  the  edge  of  the  pitful  of  burnt 
stone,  reducing  a  shaly  lump  here  and  there  to 
powder  with  absent  knocks  of  one  dangling  boot- 
heel. 

"Good  day,"  said  the  teacher,  pausing  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  road,  opposite  the  hillock.  There  was  no 
response,  not  even  a  glance;  and  Ernie  Bedford, 
warmed  by  that  quick  sense  of  vexation  that  comes 
when  a  good-humored  greeting  is  received  without 
a  sign  of  acknowledgment,  turned  briskly  out  of  the 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

trail,  crossed  a  width  of  old  weedy  plowing,  and 
kept  on  until  he  was  right  behind  a  pair  of  vast 
shoulders,  habited  in  the  clean  shirt  of  Sunday 
morning,  still  presented  to  him  in  solid  immobility. 

"Good  morning  to  you,  sir,"  he  said  again,  then, 
with  some  emphasis.  Like  a  section  of  wall  the  great 
shoulders  leaned  back;  the  feet  drew  up  out  of  the 
pit,  and  with  a  movement  of  quiet,  smooth  erection 
Adam  Morton  rose  to  his  feet. 

He  towered  above  Ernie  a  good  five  inches,  his 
lines  of  chest  and  shoulder  reminding  the  young 
man  of  a  picture  he  had  seen  in  an  illustrated  article 
about  a  certain  European  wrestling  champion  promi 
nent  in  sporting  annals  a  few  years  before.  Adam 
Morton  was  a  light  eater  and  hard  worker,  and  there 
was  so  little  of  the  bulk  of  middle  age  about  his 
waist  region  that  Ernie,  staring  boy-like  at  the  big 
limbs  before  he  raised  his  glance  to  the  head,  re 
ceived  a  sensation  that  was  almost  a  shock,  as  his 
eyes,  traveling  upward,  reached  the  deep-graven 
furrows  of  the  face. 

"Well,  boy,"  said  Adam  Morton.  His  glance  was 
steady  and  sober,  his  eyes  holding  a  strange,  dis 
concerting  gleam  as  of  an  unripened  and  uncon- 
cluded  soliloquy  hovering  just  beyond  reach  of  ex 
pression. 

"I  am  the  new  teacher,"  said  Ernie,  a  little  ill  at 
ease,  but  shoving  his  hands  into  his  trousers  pockets 
and  squaring  his  feet  apart  with  young-man  swagger. 

"I  believe  you,"  said  the  big  man,  rumblingly. 
He  drew  out  his  watch,  thrust  it  into  his  pocket,  and 
motioned  with  his  hand  toward  the  trail. 

72 


CLARA  MORTON  AT  HOME 

"Go  on  up  to  the  house,"  he  said.  "I'll  be  there 
in  a  few  minutes.  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

The  Morton  house  was  a  homely  white  structure, 
standing  on  a  slight  rise  of  ground.  Its  site  was  an 
islet  of  grass,  perhaps  an  acre  in  extent,  to  the  edges 
of  which  the  green  cropped  fields  came  squarely. 
Beyond  it,  outlined  vividly  against  the  foliage  of  the 
poplar-grove  that  sheltered  all,  were  a  long  frame 
stable,  a  small  granary,  and  a  milk-house  built  of 
prairie  stone. 

A  great  black  dog,  rising  silently  from  the  tuft 
of  gray  wormwood  where  he  had  been  squatted, 
waited  till  Ernie  reached  the  edge  of  the  grassy  site, 
then  trotted  slowly  to  meet  him.  That  young  man, 
observing  no  tail-wagging  nor  any  sign  of  hospitality, 
stopped  dubiously,  the  perspiration  commencing  to 
ooze  gently  into  view  on  his  forehead. 

"Here,  Rover!"  said  a  voice  from  the  doorway. 
There  was  a  familiar  note  about  the  voice  that  made 
Ernie  Bedford  glad  he  had  not  been  allowed  time 
to  follow  a  hastily  forming  impulse  to  climb  the 
clothes-line  post  on  his  right.  .  It  was  with  a  vast 
sense  of  relief  that  he  saw  Rover,  after  casting  toward 
him  an  almost  piteous  glance  of  yearning,  grudgingly 
resume  his  position  in  the  center  of  the  patch  of 
wormwood. 

"Well,  Mr.  Bedford,"  said  Clara  Morton,  "you 
found  us,  did  you?" 

"Yes,  I'm  here,"  said  Ernie,  trying  hard,  as  their 
eyes  met,  to  imagine  that  there  was  something  more 
than  formal  welcome  in  the  greeting  of  this  round- 
necked  young  Hebe  with  her  sweet  Sunday-morning 

73 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

face,  neat  print  waist,  blue  work-apron,  and  hair 
gathered  in  a  hasty  but  infinitely  becoming  braid 
that  lay  over  one  shoulder,  where  it  had  fallen  as 
she  stooped  to  pat  Rover  into  benevolent  neutrality. 

"I  came  across  here  on  your  father's  invitation," 
said  the  teacher,  following  her,  hat  in  hand,  as  she 
tossed  the  braid  of  hair  back  into  place  and  led  the 
way  indoors. 

"Father's?  Oh  yes;  you  came  past  the  lime 
kiln,  didn't  you?  Mother!" 

Clara  Morton  sent  up  this  call  from  the  foot  of  the 
narrow  farm-house  stair  with  a  kind  of  coaxing  in 
sistence.  Ernie,  taking  the  chair  the  girl  had  pulled 
forward,  looked  around  the  Morton  living-room  with 
interest.  The  furniture,  faded  by  years  of  usage, 
its  upholstery  patched  and  worn,  was  made  up  of 
incongruous  units — a  lounge  of  one  pattern,  a  chair 
of  another  design,  a  buffet  finished  differently  from 
either.  The  pictures  about  the  room  were  the  or 
dinary  cheap  and  conventional  prints,  with  a  com 
fortable  width  of  gilt  frame,  varied  by  flaring  com 
plimentary  calendars  from  R.  McLeod's  Pioneer 
Store  and  Matthew  Rodgers's  One  Price  House. 
Over  the  clock-shelf,  with  its  several  books  and  two 
or  three  stiff-postured  photographs,  hung  a  picture 
of  a  locomotive  under  full  pressure  of  steam,  on 
the  step  of  it  a  smocked  and  oily  young  giant  whom 
Ernie  had  little  difficulty  in  recognizing  as  the  Adam 
Morton  of  perhaps  a  score  of  years  ago. 

Along  one  side  of  the  room  a  table,  covered  with 
white  oilcloth,  was  spread  for  dinner,  and  the 
teacher,  turning  a  glance  which  he  strove  in  vain 

74 


CLARA  MORTON  AT  HOME 

to  make  casual  upon  the  gooseberry  preserve,  the 
hot  biscuits,  the  yellow  butter  fresh  from  the  milk- 
house,  and  the  spaces  left  for  yet  more  savory  things 
whose  scent  came  from  the  oven  and  hearth,  quickly 
discovered  that,  in  spite  of  his  recent  breakfast  at 
the  Kernaghan  farm,  his  walk  had  given  him  an 
appetite  worth  at  least  a  thousand  dollars,  on  a 
dyspeptic's  valuation. 

Clara,  after  sending  her  call  up-stairs,  threw  Ernie 
a  deprecatory  little  smile  which  told  him  much. 
Without  being  conscious  of  any  actual  process  of 
reasoning,  he  knew  instinctively  that  there  was  ten 
sion  in  this  household ;  and  it  was  with  considerable 
curiosity  that,  as  the  daughter  went  over  to  the  stove 
to  tend  the  bacon  which  is  the  prairie  farmer's 
staple,  he  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  bottom  land 
ing  of  the  stairway  and  awaited  the  appearance  of 
Mrs.  Adam  Morton. 

Quite  a  little  time  elapsed  before  the  discordant 
creaking  of  the  steps  behind  the  partition  told  of 
some  one  descending.  Presently  a  woman  stepped 
out  on  the  landing,  paused  there  a  moment,  looking 
straight  before  her  at  nobody  in  particular,  then 
came  down  the  remaining  two  steps. 

She  was  tall,  lissome,  and  languid.  Though 
around  thirty-six,  she  looked  like  an  elder  sister  of 
the  young  girl  turning  bacon  at  the  stove.  The  few 
faint  lines  that  sometimes,  at  the  end  of  a  day,  were 
visible  around  her  eyes  had  been  smoothed  out  by 
a  sleep  protracted  until  past  midday;  and  now  her 
face  showed  fresh,  delicately  flushed,  and  smooth. 

Brown  eyes,  slow-lidded,  with  a  certain  habitually 

75 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

disparaging  scrutiny,  were  raised,  as  the  daughter, 
turning  from  the  sputtering  meat,  said,  simply, 
"This  is  the  new  teacher,  mother." 

Adam  Morton's  wife,  with  a  kind  of  unsmiling 
stare,  looked  at  Ernie  and  moved  her  lips;  then, 
turning  her  back  indifferently,  she  went  to  the  look 
ing-glass  that  hung  over  the  granite  basin  near  the 
doorway,  to  coil  and  pin  up  her  hair.  Ernie  eyed 
the  fine  shoulders  and  long  white  forearms  with  a 
certain  regard,  mingled,  however,  with  all  the  prej 
udice  of  the  farm-bred  against  the  country  woman 
who  lies  abed  in  the  morning — a  regard  bestowed 
furtively,  perhaps  because  it  was  less  esthetic  than 
fleshly.  It  was  not  in  any  manner  the  way  he  looked 
at  Clara.  It  was  the  kind  of  regard  which  women 
who  move  across  a  floor  as  Mrs.  Adam  moved  across 
it  invite,  whether  consciously  or  not,  from  masculine 
observers.  It  is  only  just  to  Mrs.  Adam  Morton  to 
say  that,  in  her  case,  the  manner  of  walking,  with 
its  deliberate  accentuation  and  display  of  those  round 
lines  that  are  peculiarly  womanly,  was  nothing  more 
than  a  habit  brought  from  the  city,  where,  years  be 
fore,  she  had  waited  on  table  in  the  caf6  to  which 
young  Adam  Morton  came  for  his  meals. 

Finishing  her  toilet  with  a  few  deft  touches  of  her 
long,  smooth-pored  hands,  the  mother  undulated  back 
across  the  room  and  rummaged  on  the  clock-shelf. 

"Where's  that  book?"  she  said,  coldly  and  abrupt 
ly,  omitting  the  daughter's  name  and  not  even  look 
ing  in  Clara's  direction. 

"Dave  had  it,"  said  Clara;  "but  dinner  is  just 
ready,  mother,"  she  added,  remonstratively, 

76 


CLARA  MORTON  AT  HOME 

The  mother  made  no  answer.  Discovering  her 
book  lying  face  downward  on  a  settee  where  a 
cushion  had  hidden  it,  she  settled  herself  on  a  seat 
near  the  window,  shuffled  a  few  pages  impatiently, 
and  commenced  to  read. 

"Here  comes  father  now,"  Clara  said,  as  she  made 
the  tea  and  set  it  on  the  back  of  the  stove. 

Ernie  glanced  out  of  the  window  and  saw  Adam 
Morton,  stripping  his  sleeves  back  from  his  arms, 
coming  across  the  chip-pile.  The  big  man's  shoul 
ders  filled  the  doorway  as  he  entered,  glanced  at 
each  of  the  three  in  the  room  deliberately  and  with 
out  changing  by  even  the  smallest  muscle  movement 
the  expression  of  his  face;  then  hung  up  his  hat  and 
stooped  over  the  granite  basin. 

Ernie,  even  used  as  he  was  to  the  sturdy  physique 
of  the  men-folk  of  farms,  stared  in  a  half -fascination 
at  the  man's  wonderful  neck  and  arms  as  the  cool 
water  dripped  from  the  sun-browned  skin  into  the 
basin;  at  the  great  biceps,  knotting  and  relaxing 
with  the  bending  of  the  elbows;  the  ridged  forearms; 
the  cables  of  sinew  that  roped  the  shoulders. 

"Adam's  a  friend  o'  mine,  whether  he  likes  it  or 
not,"  Henry  Nicol  had  said.  "I  'ain't  never  dis 
agreed  with  him  yet;  an',  what's  more,  I  ain't 
going  to." 

The  farmer  straightened,  rubbing  his  face  with 
the  towel,  and  glanced  through  the  doorway  in  the 
direction  of  the  stable.  Noticing  that  the  other  two 
members  of  the  Morton  farm  staff — Clara's  brother 
Dave  and  the  newly  arrived  Englishman,  Ashton — • 
were  already  on  their  way  to  the  house,  he  did  not 

77 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

give  the  hail  he  had  intended,  but  cast  the  towel 
down  carelessly,  thrust  his  fingers  through  his  iron- 
gray  hair,  and  took  his  place  at  the  table,  his  elbows 
squared  on  either  side  of  his  plate,  his  big  shoulders 
drawn  up,  and  his  eyes  fixed  downward  in  a  kind  of 
odd,  gloomy  soliloquy,  while  he  waited  for  the 
others  to  come. 

Ernie,  his  chair  commanding  a  view  of  the  stable 
path,  saw  Ashton,  with  a  kind  of  teasing  loquacity, 
trying  to  make  talk  with  a  great,  glowering  boy  who 
walked  unsociably  a  step  ahead. 

Adam  Morton's  strength  and  Louise  Morton's 
grace  had  given  this  boy  lines  like  a  puma;  but  the 
union  of  their  mental  characteristics  had  resulted  in 
a  less  favorable  blend.  Dave  was  silent  and  surly, 
his  eyes  always  holding  a  cold  suspicion  and  chal 
lenge.  Ernie  recollected  Henry  Nicol's  description, 
given  during  a  discussion  that  morning  at  the  Ker- 
naghan  breakfast-table:  "He  allays  looks,  Dave 
does,  as  if  he  was  a-itchin'  to  paste  you  one,  just 
for  hellery.  Speak  to  him  fair,  School-teacher,  if 
you  don't  want  to  come  home  from  Islay  school- 
house  some  day  in  the  doctor's  rig." 

Regarding  Dave  up  and  down,  as  the  boy  ap 
proached  the  house,  it  occurred  to  Ernie,  in  a  half- 
intuitive  flash,  that  perhaps  right  here  lay  both  the 
cause  and  the  possible  solution  of  the  disciplinary 
problems  presented  by  the  school  at  which  young 
Morton  was  a  pupil.  A  youth  with  a  build  like  that 
would  undoubtedly  be  the  athletic  champion  of  the 
school  playing-ground ;  and  this,  added  to  his 
quality  of  cold  and  scornful  aggressiveness,  set  it 

78 


CLARA  MORTON  AT  HOME 

almost  beyond  a  doubt  that  he  was  the  natural 
leader  of  Islay's  boys. 

The  one  who  could  "handle"  Dave  Morton  would 
have  no  trouble  in  teaching  Islay  school.  There 
was  no  doubt  he  was  the  bell  ram  of  the  flock. 

Although  Ernie  Bedford  had,  as  most  naturally 
introspective  and  observant  folk  do,  matured  in  ad 
vance  of  his  age  in  knowledge  Df  human  nature,  and 
was  aware  that  an  attitude  of  genial  abandon  will 
generally  break  up  the  worst  case  of  surliness  in 
another,  still,  there  was  enough  of  boyish  "ginger" 
in  him  to  make  him  meet  young  Morton's  coldly 
curious,  challenging  look  with  an  involuntary  flash 
of  aggressiveness  in  his  own  eye,  as  the  boy  entered 
the  farm-house  door. 

"This  is  the  new  teacher,  Dave,"  said  Clara  Mor 
ton.  "Mr.  Bedford,  this  is  Dave,  my  brother." 

Ernie  got  up  from  his  chair,  smiling  with  that 
good-humored,  spontaneous  knitting  of  his  eye- 
corners  and  arching  of  his  brows  that  had  already 
made  Henry  Nicol,  Mr.  Kernaghan,  and  Adam 
Morton — although  the  last  named  had  as  yet  given 
no  outward  sign  of  it — "take"  to  him.  The  in 
tractable  wisp  of  hair  standing  up  on  his  scalp  made 
Clara  Morton,  standing  in  an  odd  little  motherly 
contemplative  attitude,  with  her  head  on  one  side 
and  her  hand  at  her  cheek,  want  to  step  up  and 
smooth  it. 

Walking  over  till  he  was  in  front  of  the  boy, 
Ernie  extended  his  hand,  still  smiling,  although  there 
had  come  something  of  a  glint  into  his  eyes  as  he 
crossed  glances  at  close  range  with  his  future  pupil. 

79 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Dave  Morton  looked  from  the  teacher  to  the 
outreached  hand.  "Good  day,"  he  said,  coldly, 
without  taking  it,  turning  away  to  seat  himself  at 
the  table. 

"Shake!"  said  Ernie,  in  a  voice  that,  while  brisk 
and  good-humored,  had  a  note  of  command  in  it 
like  the  snap  of  a  whip. 

The  quick  half -order  taking  him  by  surprise, 
young  Morton  yielded  his  cold,  strong  hand  into 
the  other's  grasp.  Ernie  squeezed  it  with  a  mus 
cular  impressiveness  and  shook  it,  hand  and  arm 
remaining,  during  this  function,  as  solid  and  straight 
as  an  iron  pump-handle. 

"Come,  mother,"  Clara  Morton  said,  as  she  set 
the  meat  on  the  straw  mat  in  front  of  her  father. 

Mrs.  Adam,  glancing  up  with  a  distant  expression, 
slowly  laid  aside  her  book,  crossed  the  room,  and 
laid  her  hand  on  the  back  of  a  chair  with  a  cushioned 
seat,  to  draw  it  up  to  the  table. 

"Ah — allow  me."  The  voice  was  that  of  Ashton, 
the  Englishman,  whose  big,  trim  figure  made  the 
smock  and  overalls  he  now  wore  look  as  though  they 
had  been  specially  tailored.  With  the  grace  and 
smoothness  of  one  who  has  spent  all  the  conscious 
years  of  a  life  close  on  half  a  century  long  making 
himself  agreeable  to  ladies  white,  brown,  and  black, 
all  over  the  globe,  he  lifted  and  swung  into  place 
the  heavy  chair,  with  its  high  back  and  faded  up 
holstered  seat;  contriving  that  his  head,  with  its 
straight,  clean  contour  of  brow  and  nose,  and  its 
dark,  curly  hair  touched  with  gray,  should  bob  well 
into  Louise  Morton's  view  as  she  took  her  place. 

80 


CLARA  MORTON  AT  HOME 

Mrs.  Adam  Morton  acknowledged  this  act  of 
courtesy  with  the  first  smile  Ernie  Bedford  had  seen 
cross  her  face  since  he  entered  the  farm-house — a 
smile  accompanied  by  a  little  turn  of  the  head,  a 
lift  of  the  chin,  and  a  slow  raising  and  lowering  of  the 
lashes — a  smile  which  brought  old,  long-unexercised 
charms  and  sweetnesses  into  new  play. 

No  one  noticed  it  except  Ernie;  although  Mrs. 
Adam,  with  her  manner  of  weary  scorn  toward  the 
members  of  her  own  family,  took  little  pains  at 
concealment. 

As  for  Ashton,  the  recipient  of  the  glance,  he  sat 
down  in  the  chair  cornering  Mrs.  Morton's  at  the 
end  of  the  table  and  commenced  a  conversation 
which  at  first  he  made  general,  drawing  in  Ernie  and 
Clara  and  occasionally  the  preoccupied  big  man  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  but  soon  managed  adroitly 
to  convert  into  an  unconstrained  and  interesting 
little  special  conversation  with  Morton's  wife. 

The  table  gradually  emptied.  On  this  farm  one 
got  up  from  the  table  when  through  eating,  and  did 
not  wait  for  the  rest.  Dave  was  the  first  to  push 
back  his  chair,  stick  his  hat  on  his  head,  and  walk 
off  toward  the,  for  him,  most  interesting  corner  of 
the  farm — the  shed  where  the  new  gasolene-engine 
rested  in  potential  power  on  its  timber  base.  Clara 
arose  next,  filling  the  big  granite  teakettle  with 
water  and  setting  it  on  the  stove  to  heat  for  the  dish 
washing.  Adam,  waiting  till  the  teacher  had  drained 
his  teacup,  arose  creakingly  from  his  chair,  and  said : 

"Put  on  your  hat  and  come  down  to  the  granary. 
I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

81 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Ernie,  a  little  curious  as  to  what  this  great,  taci 
turn  man  would  say  when  he  did  actually  talk — 
monosyllables  and  isolated  sentences  being  all  the 
teacher  had  heard  him  utter,  so  far — took  the  hat 
that  Clara  brought  from  its  hook  and  handed  to  him 
with  her  sweet,  old-fashioned  hostess-like  smile,  and 
followed  the  farmer  down  to  the  granary. 

Adam  Morton  clicked  his  pipe  into  his  mouth  and 
sat  down  on  a  tied  bag  of  wheat,  cutting  tobacco 
slowly  into  his  palm. 

"Smoke?"  he  said,  tossing  over  the  tobacco-plug 
and  eying  Ernie  in  his  steady,  disconcerting  way 
as  the  young  man  filled  and  lighted  his  pipe. 
"Ever  teach  before,  boy?"  he  said,  presently. 

"First  school,  this,"  Ernie  replied,  meeting  brevity 
with  brevity. 

Adam  Morton  smoked  on  for  a  moment  in  silence. 
Then  he  said,  shifting  his  pipe  to  the  side  of  his 
mouth  and  speaking,  as  it  were,  along  the  stem 
of  it: 

"Now,  look  here,  School-teacher.  The  school  in 
this  district  has  a  hard  name.  People  'round  here 
claims  my  son  is  the  one  who  makes  the  trouble. 
Maybe  that's  so;  maybe  not.  I  want  you  to  take 
that  boy  in  hand.  I  liked  the  way  you  met  him,  up 
at  the  house  yonder;  and  I  think  you  can  handle 
him.  The  teachers  that  were  here  before  you  tried 
to  make  a  fool  of  him — shame  him  into  studying,  as 
they  called  it.  I  don't  think,  though  " — Adam  Mor 
ton  smiled  grimly  and  a  little  unpleasantly — "that 
they  made  half  as  big  a  fool  of  him  as  he  did  of  them, 
before  he  was  through  with  them.  Not  that  I'd 

82 


CLARA  MORTON  AT  HOME 

have  objected  to  this  shamin'  business  if  it  had 
worked.  But  it  didn't;  and  I  could  have  told  them 
it  wouldn't,  before  they  tried  it  on. 

4 'They've  made  such  a  mess  of  my  boy's  educa 
tion,  so  far,  that  I  made  up  my  mind,  when  the  last 
teacher  left,  that  I'd  see  the  next  man  myself  and 
give  him  a  word  or  two  in  advance.  I  asked  Harry 
Nicol,  when  he  was  going  in  after  you,  if  you  would 
be  boarding  at  Kernaghan's,  so  I'd  know  where  to 
find  you;  and  if  you  hadn't  come  over  here  to-day, 
I  would  have  gone  over  to  Tom's  and  seen  you  there. 
That's  what  I  was  thinkin'  about,  over  yonder  at  the 
kil',  when  you  come  along — what  I'd  say  to  you.  I 
ain't  a  talkin'  man,  not  since — since" — Adam  Mor 
ton's  voice  died  in  his  throat,  his  eyes  widened,  his 
cheeks  went  gray,  and  tiny  drops,  cold  as  newly  dis 
solved  frost  atoms,  sprang  out  between  the  deep- 
plowed  lines  on  his  forehead — "not  since  I  quit  the 
railroadin';  and  if  I  want  to  say  anything — I  mean 
fetch  out  an  argument  or  anything  like  that — I've 
got  to  get  it  ready  in  advance,  like  a  man  preparin' 
a  speech." 

Ernie  looked  at  the  big,  momentarily  drooping 
shoulders,  and  the  magnetic  current  of  his  ready 
young-man  sympathy  swung  the  needle-point  of  his 
attitude  toward  silent,  dour  Adam  Morton  to  an 
opposite  and  warmer  pole. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  sir,"  he  said  (he  could 
not  help  adding  the  "sir"  in  a  kind  of  man-soldierly 
salute  to  this  giant,  grayed  and  dignified  by  grief); 
"your  boy's  good  at  heart,  but  he's  been  misunder 
stood." 

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THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Adam  Morton  put  up  his  hand.  "Wait,"  he  said; 
"don't  bust  in  on  me  till  I'm  through.  I  want  to 
get  this  thing  straight,  and  you'll  only  mix  me  up. 
Now,  yon  boy's  no  dunderhead.  He's  keen  to 
learn,  and  I'm  keen  to  have  him  learn.  But  you've 
got  to  make  a  friend  of  him.  Dave  he  can't  be 
drove,  nor  yet  led,  no  way,  if  he  don't  take  to  you. 
Well,  here's  the  point  I  was  comin'  to:  before  you 
can  make  a  friend  of  that  boy,  there's  one  thing 
you've  got  to  do." 

Adam  paused.  He  pressed  the  tobacco  in  his 
pipe-bowl  down  with  his  thumb  and  puffed  away 
for  a  moment  or  two;  then,  with  a  startling  sudden 
ness,  swung  around,  brought  his  hand  down  on  Ernie 
Bedford's  shoulder  with  such  force  as  to  jar  every 
joint  in  that  young  man's  body,  and  jerked  out, 
thrusting  his  face  close: 

"Can  you  fight?" 

Ernie  Bedford  was  frankly  taken  aback.  In  a 
moment,  however,  the  muscles  of  his  jaw  tensed  and 
he  threw  up  his  chin,  his  brown  eyes  glowing. 

"I  guess  I  can,"  he  said,  levelly;  "you're  pretty 
big,  but—" 

Adam  Morton's  face  slowly  relaxed.  He  took  his 
hand  off  the  teacher's  shoulder,  his  smile  broadening, 
as  he  eyed  the  expression  on  Ernie's  face,  until  it 
boiled  over  in  deep,  queer  laughter,  ending  in  an 
abrupt  return  to  soberness. 

"No,  my  boy,"  he  said;  "it  ain't  you  and  I  that's 
got  to  fight.  What  I  was  meaning  is  this:  you  may 
think  it's  an  odd  thing  for  a  father  to  say,  but  I 
know  my  son  better  than  any  one  else  does ;  you've 

84 


CLARA  MORTON  AT  HOME 

got  to  fight  our  Dave,  and  you've  got  to  lick  him, 
too,  before  you  can  make  a  friend  of  him." 

Adam  stretched  out  his  feet  and  knocked  the  ashes 
out  of  his  pipe-bowl  on  the  edge  of  the  granary  step. 

"You're  a  pretty  husky  lad,"  he  continued,  "but — 
I'm  not  braggin'  about  my  boy,  I'm  just  saying  this 
to  get  you  ready — you've  got  some  job  ahead  of 
you  to  come  out  best  in  a  tussle  with  Dave.  He's  as 
strong  as  an  ox,  and  he's  a  stubborn  fighter — wun't 
give  in  as  long  as  he  can  wag  a  finger.  But  whatever 
you  do,  keep  this  in  your  memory-box:  if  you  get 
into  a  mix-up  with  him — and  you  will,  for  I  can  see 
you're  a  lad  that  won't  take  no  back-talk — lick  him. 
Lick  him !  If  you  don't  he'll  make  your  life  a  misery 
to  you  and  you'll  have  to  quit  Islay,  the  same  as  the 
rest  of  'em  did;  and  there  will  be  perhaps  the  last 
good  chance  gone  for  my  boy  to  get  some  schooling. 
He's  nearly  sixteen,  an'  he's  only  in  the  third  book — 
think  of  that. 

"Well" — the  farmer  rose  toweringly  and  dropped 
his  pipe  into  his  pocket — "that's  all  I  wanted  to  tell 
you.  Go  back  to  the  house  now,  if  you  like,  and 
talk  to  the  little  girl.  I  think  she  kind  of  likes  you. 
You  wouldn't  like  to  think  of  Dave  comin'  home 
from  school,  some  evenin',  and  mentioning  casual  to 
her  that  he'd  licked  the  everlasting  tar  out  of  you, 
would  you?  I  must  go  down  to  the  stable  now;  I 
got  a  sick  colt  to  look  after.  So-long,  and  remember 
what  I  told  you;  for  you'll  find  it's  the  truth." 

Ernie  glanced  toward  the  machinery-shed  as  he 
sauntered  back  to  the  house.  Dave  Morton,  ob 
livious  to  all  else,  sat  on  an  up-ended  pail  by  the 
7  85 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

new  gasolene-engine,  polishing  it  lovingly  with  a  bit 
of  "waste."  Pausing  a  moment  to  watch  the  boy, 
Ernie  Bedford  remembered  certain  books  that  he 
had  brought  with  him  in  his  trunk,  souvenirs  of  a 
summer  course  his  father  had  made  him  take,  three 
years  before,  at  the  State  agricultural  college.  Think 
ing  of  these,  the  teacher  received  an  apt  inspiration 
for  cementing  the  friendship  with  this  stormy  petrel 
of  Islay  school — the  friendship  which  must,  if  the 
father's  discernment  were  accurate,  be  inaugurated 
by  a  fist-thrashing. 

Clara  Morton,  as  the  teacher  approached  the 
house,  stepped  out  of  the  door  and  came  down  the 
steps,  a  pan  under  her  arm,  with  bits  of  bread  in  it, 
made  into  a  sop  by  the  addition  of  hot  water  and 
milk. 

"Do  you  want  to  come  and  see  the  wee  chickens 
get  their  dinner?"  she  said. 

Ernie  did  not  answer  at  the  moment.  Happen 
ing,  on  his  way  across  the  dooryard,  to  glance  in 
through  the  open  farm-house  door,  he  had  seen  that 
Ashton  and  Mrs.  Adam  Morton  were  still  at  the 
dinner-table.  Ashton  was  talking  volubly,  using 
numerous  soft  "a's,"  but  no  "r's"  to  speak  of. 
Mrs.  Adam  Morton  was  pouring  a  cup  of  tea  for 
him.  Ernie,  wondering  at  this  amazing  display  of 
energy  on  the  part  of  the  indolent  Cleopatra  of  the 
domain  of  Morton,  glanced  at  the  face  above  the 
tilted  teapot.  What  a  change!  The  eyes  were 
shining,  the  cheeks  handsomely  colored,  the  scorn 
ful  lips  unloosed  and  bubbling  with  talk  like  those 
of  an  eager  school-girl. 

86 


CLARA  MORTON  AT  HOME 

"Mother  seems  to  like  to  talk  to  Mr.  Ashton," 
Clara  observed,  simply.  "We  don't  see  very  many 
people  out  here,  and  he's  very  interesting  to  listen 
to.  He's  been  telling  mother  about  his  life  in  Lon 
don.  She's  always  pined  to  get  back  to  city  life, 
but  we  haven't  been  able  to.  Father's  quit  rail 
roading  for  good,  and  there's  nothing  else  he  could 
make  his  living  at  in  town,  as  he  isn't  an  office 


man." 


Despite  the  effort  of  this  good  little  daughter  of 
the  house  to  dismiss  the  protracted  tete-a-t&te  of 
her  mother  and  Ashton  as  a  thing  of  no  importance, 
Ernie  detected  an  odd  note  of  reserve  in  her  voice 
as  she  referred  to  the  Englishman. 

"This  Ashton  seems  to  be  a  kind  of  a  strong- 
built  fellow,"  he  said.  "I  guess  he'll  be  a  good 
man,  won't  he,  to  have  around  when  the  heavy 
season  comes?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  suppose  so,"  Clara  conceded,  a  little 
distantly;  then,  briskly  changing  the  subject,  she 
said:  "Well,  how  did  you  and  father  get  along? 
You  had  quite  a  long  talk,  didn't  you,  down  there 
at  the  granary?  Father  doesn't  take  to  very  many 
people,  but  I  think  he  likes  you." 

"Your  dad's  all  right,"  said  Ernie,  in  brief  com 
mendation.  He  had  an  odd  feeling  of  being  led 
as  he  dropped  into  step  beside  Clara  Morton  in  the 
path  leading  to  the  hen-house.  The  firm,  round 
arm  curved  about  the  pan;  the  little,  decisive  chin, 
slanted  up  in  its  intent  business-like  way;  the  un 
regarded  strand  of  hair,  with  a  curl  at  the  end,  which 
the  breeze  brushed  back  and  forward  from  the  tip 

87 


THE   ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

of  Clara's  ear  to  her  round-pointed  nose;  the  bust, 
curving  under  its  white  apron-bib  with  a  soft 
maternal  fullness — all  exhaled  a  kind  of  instinc 
tive,  gentle  mothering  which  seemed  to  have 
reached  out  and  gathered  Ernie  into  its  tender 
jurisdiction. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  go  to  school,"  he  said; 
but  he  made  the  suggestion  almost  deferentially. 

Clara's  eyelashes  went  up  and  down.  She  settled 
the  pan  a  little  more  snugly  under  her  arm — her  un 
conscious  answer  to  the  suggestion  that  she  could 
for  even  one  day  leave  the  home  duties  that  crowded 
one  upon  the  other  from  dawn  to  dark. 

"I  read  a  little  on  Sundays,"  she  said,  after  a 
moment,  apologetically.  "I  save  the  wrappers  off 
the  soap,  and  send  away  for  the  books  on  the  soap 
company's  premium  list.  I  have  quite  a  bit  of 
time  to  myself  on  Sunday  afternoons  when  Ida's 
here — Ida  Bethune,  a  neighbor  girl  who  hires  with 
us  for  the  summer  to  help  out  her  family,  who  are 
just  out  from  the  Old  Country  and  haven't  got  a 
very  good  start  yet — but  this  is  her  Sunday  off,  and 
she's  gone  home  for  the  day." 

"There's  a  lot  of  good  stuff  among  the  soap- 
premium  books,"  said  Ernie.  "Maybe  we  could 
run  over  the  list  together,  next  time  you're  sending 
away  for  some.  But  I'm  going  to  speak  to  your 
father  about  letting  you  come  to  school." 

Clara  smiled.  She  had  spent  all  her  not  very 
many  years  in  thinking  for  others,  and  it  gave  her 
a  new  and  pleasurable  thrill  to  find  somebody  ap 
parently  willing  to  do  a  little  thinking  for  her  busy, 

88 


CLARA  MORTON  AT  HOME 

unregarded  self.  Moreover,  there  was  something 
in  her  that  leaned  oddly  toward  this  unconsciously 
boyish  young  teacher,  with  his  pleasant  and  frankly 
self-assured  way. 

At  this  point  the  two  were  hailed  from  afar  by 
two  old,  lurching  galleons  of  hens,  each  attended 
by  a  little  yellow-jibbed  fleet  of  chickens.  Clara 
knocked  the  chaff  out  of  two  old  pans  that  lay  bot 
tom  up  in  the  poultry-yard  and,  dividing  the  food 
she  had  fetched  into  two  equal  portions,  poured  half 
into  each  tin,  which  instantly  became  a  twinkling 
yellow  ring,  set  with  a  great,  gray,  phlegmatic  stone 
of  mother-hen. 

Ernie  looked  absently  at  the  fowls,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets.  Then  he  transferred  his  gaze  to  Clara. 
She  stood,  wardress  of  the  two  fowl  families  at  their 
meal,  her  hand  holding  the  emptied  pan  tidily 
away  from  the  clean  dotted  apron;  her  forehead, 
with  its  motherly,  round  profile,  curving  back  under 
soft  hair  filled  by  the  sun  with  light ;  the  nose  pushed 
out  a  little  at  the  nostril  with  Clara's  pleasant, 
abiding  smile.  A  true  little  worker,  every  other 
interest  was  submerged  for  the  moment  in  the  busi 
ness  at  hand,  that  of  watching  to  see  that  the  two 
flocks  of  chicks,  with  their  mothers,  shared  equally 
and  without  mutual  encroachment  the  contents  of 
the  pans. 

The  picture  stayed  in  the  young  teacher's  mind 
in  all  its  mid-afternoon  vividness,  as  he  walked 
home  that  evening  under  the  stars.  After  he  had 
adroitly  dodged  Henry  Nicol  and  Mr.  Kernaghan 
(who  were  brimming  roguishly  with  unspoken  com- 

89 


THE 5  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

ment  about  "sparking  his  big  gal  scholars  before 
he'd  even  started  to  teach — worse  'n  the  other 
man  by  a  long  ways"),  and  had  slipped  up  to  his 
airy  bedroom  and  between  fresh-smelling  sheets, 
the  sweet  image  wandered  on  with  him  into  dream 
land. 


VIII 

THE   CANVASSERS 

ON  the  west-bound  train  roaring  across  Oak  Creek 
trestle  two  men  had  a  smoking-car  to  themselves. 
The  slat  seats  were  not  quite  so  comfortable  as  the 
upholstered  ones  in  the  other  part  of  the  coach,  but 
the  cigars  were  very  good;  and  shop-talk,  with 
smoking  privileges,  was  better  than  blocky  red  cush 
ions  through  which  you  could  feel  the  springs. 

One  of  the  two  was  a  big  young  man,  with  a  round, 
blatant,  self-assured  eye.  He  sat  with  his  elbow  on 
the  window-sill,  his  hat  tilted  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  and  his  limbs  spread  over  all  of  his  own  seat 
and  a  good  part  of  his  companion's. 

The  other  of  the  two  was  a  little  man  about  twice 
as  old,  with  a  bulging  bald  forehead,  soft  brown 
beard,  and  small  creased  eyes.  He  sat  with  his  feet 
and  knees  drawn  together,  on  the  small  portion  of 
his  seat  unoccupied  by  the  extremities  of  the  big 
young  man.  He  chewed  his  cigar  nervously,  and 
squinted  and  smiled  perpetually.  When  he  spoke 
or  laughed  it  was  in  miniature,  like  the  squeak  of  a 
mouse. 

Mr.  James  Young  drew  his  large  form  into  a 

91 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

slightly  more  upright  position  with  a  roughness  that 
made  the  slats  creak.  He  took  his  cigar  sweepingly 
from  his  teeth,  puffed  a  cloud  of  smoke  into  little 
George  Hancock's  eyes,  scattered  a  storm  of  ash- 
flakes  on  George's  trousers,  galvanized  him  into 
tingling  attention  with  a  mighty  slap  on  the  knee, 
and  said,  or  rather  roared,  through  his  nose: 

"They  ken  talk  about  their  c 'missions  an'  their 
premiums  an'  how  many  shares  they've  wrote  in  a 
month — but  how  many  dollars  does  it  represent? 
It  ain't  'what  c'mission  are  yo'  s'posed  to  git?'  It's 
'how  many  dollars — dol-lars — do-o-ollars  is  act'ly 
goin'  into  y'r  pants  pocket?'  Think  o'  y'rself. 
Don't  think  of  th'  other  man.  Think  o'  your  wife 
at  home  an*  your  boy  Don.  Sentiment  ain't  goin' 
to  pay  y'r  coal  bill.  Write  a  man  up  fur  all  he  ken 
carry  away.  Give  'm  all  the  time  he  wants  on  's 
notes — he  may  be  dead  b'fore  they  come  doo,  'r  you 
may — then  git  y'r  c'mission,  go  down  to  the  hotel, 
have  a  good  lunch  an'  a  long  beer  an'  a  fifteen-cent 
cigar;  then  sling  the  rest  int'  the  bank  an'  git  y'r 
check -book.  It's  y'rself  an*  your  wife  an'  your 
boy  Don.  T'  hell  with  th'  other  man.  T'  hell  with 
'm.  Ain't  that  so?  Heh?" 

"That's  right,"  said  George  Hancock,  guarding  his 
leg  a  little  nervously  from  the  customary  slap  with 
which  Mr.  Young  punctuated  his  pauses.  "That's 
right,  Jimmy.  Yes,  that's  so." 

"Go  in  for  the  big,  squaar  thing,"  said  Mr.  James 
Young,  throwing  away  his  cigar  and  slapping,  for  a 
change,  his  own  knee,  "th'  fur-lined  overcoats  an' 
the  bawlbriggan  underwear  an'  the  squaar-toed  boots. 

92 


THE  CANVASSERS 

Some  fellers  is  satisfied  to  whang  a  typewriter  all 
their  days,  or  keep  a  set  of  books  in  some  hole-an'- 
corner  office.  I  ain't  built  that  way,  George.  I 
ken  make  th'  big  money,  an*  I'm  goin'  into  life  fur 
th'  dollars,  th'  long  green.  Let  th'  other  feller  bum 
if  he  wants  to,  'r  starve  if  he  wants  to.  He'd  say  th' 
same  about  me.  T'  hell  with  'm.  It's  you  an*  your 
wife  an*  your  boy  Don.  Ain't  that  so,  George, 
ag'in?  Huh?  Ain't  it  so?" 

"That's  so,  Jimmy,"  agreed  his  listener,  getting  up 
very  quickly  as  he  saw  his  large  friend's  hand  making 
its  periodical  pre-slap  excursion  up  into  the  air. 
"Yeh,  thass  cert'n'y  right,  Jim."  He  stretched  his 
arms  above  his  head,  yawned,  and,  as  the  big  young 
man's  hand  descended  with  a  crack  like  a  pistol- 
shot  on  his  own  sturdy  knee,  settled  into  his  seat 
again  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  As  he  did  so 
the  yawn,  after  some  racking  facial  twists,  became 
a  subdued  grin.  "Look  what's  here,  Jimmy,"  he 
creaked,  covering  his  mouth  with  his  hand  and 
watching  the  big  young  man's  face  with  interest  as 
the  latter  glanced  out  through  the  small,  smoky  pane. 

With  a  whistling  that  waked  screeching  echoes  in 
the  placid  hills,  and  a  bell-ringing  that  wholly  ex 
tinguished  for  the  moment  the  robust  clang  of  Nat 
Bourke's  sledge-hammer,  the  train  drew  slowly  to 
a  standstill,  and  the  two,  with  their  grips,  stepped 
out  into  Oakburn.  .  .  . 

"I'm  gittin'  a  suit  like  that,  Shan,"  said  Joey 
Davis,  a  school-boy,  to  another  whose  bare  feet 
dangled  against  the  side  of  a  high  goods-box  on  the 
station  platform,  as  from  under  the  peak  of  a  cap 

93 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

drawn  swaggeringly  down  over  his  eyes  Joey  glanced 
at  Mr.  Young. 

"What  sort  of  a  stoppin'-house  is  there  in  this 
place?"  inquired  Jimmy  Young,  of  nobody  in  par 
ticular,  as  he  stared  around  him,  "an'  where  is  it?" 

"There  she  is,"  said  little  George  Hancock,  in 
dicating  the  Commercial  Hotel,  on  its  skids,  with  a 
motion  of  the  arm  that  held  his  lightest  grip.  "There 
she  all  is,  Jim.  Comin'  right  over  to  meet  us." 

It  was  a  habit  of  Jimmy  Young  to  say  least  when 
he  was  expected  to  say  most.  In  the  present  case  he 
merely  tightened  his  lips,  gave  his  suit-case  a  dis 
dainful  swing,  and  led  the  way  across  the  tracks  in 
the  direction  of  the  hotel.  Arrived  before  the  door, 
he  ostentatiously  brought  a  plank,  set  it  against  the 
much-elevated  front-door  sill,  and  walked  noisily 
into  the  dingy  hall. 

It  was  something  of  a  surprise  to  Mrs.  Maggie 
Taylor,  whose  chief  trade  came  from  the  village  it 
self  and  the  outlying  farms,  and  who  had  little  need 
or  incentive  to  put  herself  seriously  out  to  cater  to 
Oakburn's  floating  population — it  was  something  of 
a  surprise  to  her  when  Jimmy  Young,  unceremoni 
ously  turning  the  knob  of  the  kitchen  door,  looked  in 
upon  herself  and  plump  Miss  Taylor  washing  up 
the  breakfast  dishes,  and  said,  in  a  tone  that  rattled 
the  windows: 

"Hey,  how's  chances,  Missis?" 

Mrs.  Maggie  Taylor  paused,  with  one  hand  on  the 
edge  of  the  dishpan,  and  stared  at  the  speaker.  In 
shape  she  was  like  one  of  her  own  large  and  savory 
sausages,  which  she  made  for  the  farmers  healthily 

94 


THE  CANVASSERS 

and  heartily  arriving  from  long  drives  over  the  dry, 
breezy  prairie.  Where  her  apron-strings  were  pinned 
about  her  waist  there  was  a  crease  in  her  rotundity 
like  that  in  a  baby's  wrist.  She  had  a  large  face, 
eyes  glowing  with  the  power  and  aggressiveness 
born  of  long  contact  with  the  rough  Western  life 
which  a  hotel-keeper's  wife  touches  at  all  angles, 
and  black  hair  done  up  in  an  unhandsome  knot  at 
the  back  of  her  head.  She  had  a  robust  hillside  of 
breast,  arms  huge  and  red  and  firm,  and  fingers 
stumpy  and  strong. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  mottled  waist  and  shapeless 
red  skirt,  over  which  was  pinned  a  blue  denim 
apron.  The  skirt,  coming  only  to  the  ankles,  re 
vealed  the  fact  that  the  feet  of  Mrs.  Maggie  Taylor, 
for  greater  ease,  were  bare. 

She  looked  Mr.  James  Young  over  from  head  to 
foot  with  a  deliberate  glance ;  then  turned  from  him, 
putting  her  fingers  back  into  the  water,  bringing  out 
a  plate  and  setting  it  on  an  inverted  cup  to  drain. 
As  the  plate  stopped  teetering,  she  said,  out  of  the 
corner  of  her  mouth: 

"Chances  for  dinner,  if  that's  what  you  mean, 
will  be  extra  good,  young  fellow,  if  you  move  y'rself 
out  of  our  kitchen  and  don't  come  botherin'  round 
here  no  more  till  about  half  past  twelve  o'clock. 
Some  more  hot  water  out  o'  that  there  kettle,  Edith." 

Mr.  Young  backed  out,  closed  the  door  very  soft 
ly,  set  down  his  grip,  shoved  both  hands  into  his 
trousers  pockets,  and  looked  earnestly  at  George 
Hancock. 

" George,"  he  said  at  length,  slowly  and  distinctly, 

95 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

"if  I'm  awake,  an*  not  sound  asleep  an'  dreamin',  a 
lick  o'  toddy's  the  only  thing  that  '11  save  our 
lives,  after  that.  Come!" 

The  room  into  which  Mr.  James  Young,  aided 
by  a  trained  nose  and  an  unerring  bump  of  locality, 
led  the  way,  held  at  the  moment  but  one  person 
besides  Tom  Taylor,  the  proprietor — that  invariable 
and  ever-constant  customer,  Andy  Robb.  When 
Jimmy  Young  and  George  Hancock  came  in  he  was 
leaning  in  his  habitual  attitude,  with  his  elbows 
propped  on  the  iron  window-guards  that  ran  cross 
wise  to  the  height  of  the  average  inebriate  blindly- 
butting  arm-joint,  and  had  already  saved  their  cost 
many  times  over  in  safely  preserved  window-panes. 

Tom  Taylor  looked  up  cheerfully  from  behind 
the  counter  as  his  ear  caught  the  unfamiliar  foot 
step  and  his  eye  the  new  leather  grip  carried  by 
Jimmy  Young.  Drummers  were  generally  good  bar 
customers,  even  if  they  did  sometimes  demand  re 
duced  rates  for  meals  and  board. 

"Scotch  an'  soda,"  snorted  Jimmy,  looking  around 
him  disparagingly. 

"Same  f'r  mine,"  squeaked  George  Hancock, 
spitting  down  upon  the  foot-rail. 

"Well,  I'll  be  cow-kicked!"  This  exclamation,  in 
the  tone  of  a  father  welcoming  a  long-lost  son,  came 
suddenly  from  the  patron  leaning  upon  the  window- 
bar.  He  advanced  upon  Mr.  Young  in  two  long 
steps,  and  stretched  out  his  hand.  "How  in  blazes 
are  you,  boy?"  he  said,  beamingly.  "Don't  you 
remember  me?  How  are  y',  anyway,  sport,  and 
what  are  y'  workin'  at  now?" 

96 


THE  CANVASSERS 

Mr.  Young,  with  a  deliberate  movement,  put  his 
hand  behind  him,  shoving  it  up  under  his  coat- 
tail  and  resting  his  knuckles  upon  his  hip. 

Mr.  Hancock,  like  an  echo,  or  a  shadow,  immedi 
ately  set  his  arm  akimbo,  as  well.  The  two  fixed 
the  welcomer  with  a  cold  regard. 

''Why — don't  y'  know  me?"  said  Andy  Robb, 
mournfully,  as  his  hand  fell  slowly  to  his  side. 
"Surely,  Bill,  you—" 

"Don't  know  you  from  Adam,  you  wall-eyed  half- 
an'-half,"  returned  Mr.  Young,  with  great  frank 
ness,  as  he  drained  his  glass  and  smacked  it  down 
on  the  counter.  "Come  on,  let's  take  a  walk  out 
o'  this,  George.  I  got  a  couple  o'  decent  cigars  left, 
anyway,  to  take  the  taste  o'  this  hog-wash  out  of 
our  mouths." 

"That's  good  whisky,"  said  the  proprietor, 
placidly.  "Ain't  it,  Andy?" 

"You  bet  your  life  it's  good  whisky,"  cor 
roborated  the  aggrieved  Andy  Robb,  whacking  his 
fist  down  on  the  counter,  "and  any  dam'  son  of  a 
mule  that  says  it  ain't  good  whisky  don't  know 
good  licker  when  he  sees  it." 

"Aw,  go  an'  die,"  rumbled  Mr.  Young,  looking 
back  from  the  door. 

He  swung  it  open  and,  followed  by  Mr.  Hancock, 
jumped  down  upon  the  yellow-flowered  roadside, 
walked  around  the  end  of  the  skids,  the  longest  one 
of  which  Jimmy  Young  barked  scornfully  with  his 
boot-heel,  and  took  his  way  along  a  little  foot 
path  to  the  railroad  track.  Here  Jimmy,  sitting 
down  upon  the  end  of  a  tie,  lit  one  of  the  cigars 

97 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

and  puffed  vigorously.  Barefooted  Joey  Davis,  a 
country  boy  out  of  school  for  the  noon  hour,  came 
along  the  station  platform  with  freckled  Shan 
Robinson,  the  section-man's  son;  and  the  two,  sit 
ting  down  on  the  end  of  the  platform  behind  Mr. 
Young,  passed  critical  comment. 

"Big  feller,  ain't  he?"  said  Joey,  softly,  taking  his 
foot  upon  his  knee  and  probing  for  "slivers." 

"Thim  travelin'-men  has  to  be  big,  by  hokey!" 
said  Shan,  shoving  his  cap  to  one  side  and  spitting 
at  a  toad  beneath.  "They  have  to  fight  people, 
like,  to  make  thim  buy." 

"Well,  look  at  th'  other  one,"  objected  Joey, 
"little  squinny  pictur'  o'  misery.  I  c'u'd  lick  him 
myself." 

"Aw,  well,"  said  Shan,  grinningly,  "th'  big  wan 
pertects  him." 

Mr.  Hancock  arose  very  briskly.  ' '  Now  see  here, ' ' 
he  said,  with  some  sharpness,  "you  boys  clear  out! 
Go  home  to  your  mothers  an'  get  spanked,  you — you 
dirty-faced  little  potato-bugs." 

The  two  boys  scuffled  hastily  to  their  feet  and 
backed  away.  They  came  to  a  halt  on  the  other 
side  of  the  platform. 

"I'd  hit  you,  only  yer  size  pertects  you,"  said 
Shan,  flourishing  a  grubby  fist. 

"Take  some  cod-liver  oil  an'  grow,"  recommended 
Master  Davis,  in  a  loud  voice. 

Mr.  Young  smoked  on  contemptuously;  and  Mr. 
Hancock,  for  lack  of  reinforcement,  resumed  his  seat 
on  the  end  of  the  tie,  blinking  and  fussing  himself 
into  dignity  again.  The  boys  linked  arms  and 

98 


THE  CANVASSERS 

marched  swaggeringly  away,  looking  over  their 
shoulders  and  chanting,  inaptly  but  derisively, 
"Nigger,  nigger,  never  die!" 

Jimmy  Young  took  his  cigar-butt  from  his  mouth 
and  threw  it  across  the  track. 

"George,"  he  said,  "will  you  tell  me — has  the 
bunch  in  this  forsooken  corner  o'  creation  any  money 
to  make  it  worth  while  us  waitin'  here  till  next 
train- time;  or  are  they  all  bums  an'  vags?  I  don't 
see  nothin'  but  shacks  around." 

George  Hancock  knew  that  he  was  not  being 
actually  asked  for  advice.  He  knew  that  Jimmy 
Young,  the  self-assured,  was  only  reflecting  audibly. 
Nevertheless,  he  ventured  a  timid  suggestion. 

"I  was  thinkin'  we  might,  maybe,  take  a  walk 
up  yonder,  Jimmy,"  he  said,  jerking  his  thumb  in 
the  direction  of  the  McLeod  house  across  the  creek. 
"What  d'ye  think?" 

After  an  impressive  silence  Jimmy  Young  glanced 
carelessly  in  the  direction  indicated.  The  noon  sun 
shone  transformingly  upon  the  showy  gables,  the 
splay  veranda,  and  the  dazzling  line  of  white  pickets 
that  inclosed  the  yard.  There  was  a  movement  by 
the  house  and  presently  a  buggy  pulled  by  two 
ponies  spun  neatly  and  with  an  opulent  suggestive- 
ness  out  through  the  drive  gate. 

Mr.  Young  looked  at  his  watch.  "Time  t'  eat," 
he  said,  "accordin'  to  what  that  barefooted  old 
squaw  in  th'  kitchen  told  us  awhile  ago,  George. 
We  may  tackle  the  skate  on  the  hill  after  dinner." 

Within  half  an  hour  after  they  entered  the  hotel 
the  two  emerged  and  sat  down  on  the  end  of  one  of 

99 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

the  Commercial's  skids.     Jimmy  Young  made  a  wry 
face  as  he  threw  away  his  toothpick. 

"This  burg  will  just  hold  me  till  nex'  train-time — 
that's  all,"  he  remarked  to  George  Hancock;  "just 
till  nex'  train-time,  Georgie.  We'll  do  what  busi 
ness  we  can  with  the  owner  of  the  big  house,  an' 
anybody  else  we  can  land  among  this  collection  o' 
shacks,  this  afternoon;  then,  to-morrow,  we'll  take 
a  burll  out  into  the  country  an'  slip  it  to  some  o' 
them  farmers  that  we  hear  so  much  about  in  town 
— how  they're  the  backbone  of  the  country  an'  all 
that.  We'll  backbone  'em,  George." 

"That's  the  idea,  Jimmy,"  squeaked  George  Han 
cock;  "it's  the  farmers  has  the  money,  these  days." 

"An'  before  we  start  anything,  George,"  Mr. 
Young  continued,  rising,  setting  his  hat  on  one  side, 
and  slapping  Mr.  Hancock  on  the  shoulder  with 
such  vigor  that  that  small  party's  hat  jogged  off, 
"we've  got  to  have  a  rib-tightener.  Ain't  we? 
Then  I  guess  we'll  start  right  in.  Ketch  a  man 
after  dinner,  an*  you  can  sell  him  anything." 

"That's  right,"  said  Mr.  Hancock,  recovering  his 
hat,  setting  it  on  the  side  of  his  head,  and  trotting 
after  Jimmy  Young  up  the  plank  walk  to  the  place 
of  "liquid  refreshment."  "Best  in  the  house,  Jim, 
ol*  boy — such  as  it  is,  eh?" 

George  Hancock  was  gagging  a  little  as  the  two 
emerged  from  the  bar.  "You  won't  mind  if  I  say 
that  stuff's  like  sandpaper  an'  benzine,  will  you, 
Jim?"  he  piped,  with  the  first  breath  he  could  draw. 

"Worse  'n  that,"  said  Jimmy  Young,  straighten 
ing  his  hat,  as  they  started  off  toward  the  Pioneer 

100 


THE  CANVASSERS 

Store,  " worse  'n  that,  George.  Did ;  you  think  to 
put  a  couple  o'  cigars  in  your  pocket?  No,  you 
didn't,  did  you?  You're  a  hell  of  a  man." 

R.  McLeod  met  the  two  representatives  of  the 
Great  Beaver  Trust  Company  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
standing  just  inside  his  doorway.  A  boy  behind 
him,  with  a  dust -brush  in  his  hip  pocket,  was  rilling 
up  paper  bags  with  granulated  sugar  out  of  a  barrel, 
his  assiduity  suggesting  that  he  was  doing  it  for  a 
wager. 

"Am  I  speaking  to  Mr.  McLeod?"  said  Master 
Jimmy  Young,  in  his  "big,  squaar"  tone. 

"You  are  so,"  said  R.  McLeod,  speaking  with  a 
strong  Caledonian  accent. 

"Fine  business  you'll  do  here,  likely,  Mr.  McLeod," 
said  Jimmy,  briskly,  as  George  Hancock,  lining  up 
alongside,  blinked  up  from  about  the  level  of  Jim 
my's  mid-forearm. 

"Aye,"  said  R.  McLeod,  his  pipe  in  his  hand, 
"but  that's  no  what  ye  came  to  tell  me.  Come 
ben." 

He  led  the  way  down  before  the  counter  to  a  door 
that  looked  out  between  a  pile,  of  woodenware  on 
the  one  hand,  and  a  sheaf  of  brooms  on  the  other. 
The  door  gave  into  a  small,  bare  room,  with  a  few 
newspapers  scattered  about,  one  or  two  heavy 
ledgers,  a  copying-press,  and  a  table  with  several 
pads  of  paper,  ruled  for  bills  and  bearing  the  super 
scription,  "Robert  McLeod,  Pioneer  Store." 

R.  McLeod  motioned  his  callers  to  two  of  the 
wooden  chairs.     Jimmy  Young  sat  down,  took  off 
his  hat  with  a  flourish,  thumped  it  down  on  the 
8  101 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

table,  and  pulled  his  chair  up  so  close  that  his  sturdy 
knee  bumped  the  strong,  tweed-clad  one  of  Bob 
McLeod. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you're  right,  Mr.  McLeod, 
when  you  say  we  didn't  come  here  a-visitin'.  Yes, 
sir,  you're  right."  He  hitched  his  chair  an  inch 
closer  and,  glowering  up  into  R.  McLeod's  face  with 
a  business-like  fierceness,  he  continued,  tapping  the 
tweed-clad  knee  with  his  forefinger,  "Mr.  McLeod, 
there  comes  a  time — " 

"Quit  ticklin*  me,"  said  R.  McLeod,  taking  his 
pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and  glancing  toward  his  knee. 

" — there  comes  a  time,"  Jimmy  Young  continued, 
removing  his  hand  and  resting  it  forcefully,  knuckles 
downward,  on  his  own  knee,  "a  time,  Mr.  McLeod, 
in  the  life  of  every  man  when  he  looks  around  him 
an'  says — " 

"I  hae  a  pile  o'  bills  to  make  oot,"  said  R.  McLeod, 
"so  stop  when  ye  get  to  the  first  station." 

"I'll  do  that,"  said  Jimmy  Young,  lifting  one 
hand  and  snapping  the  fingers  vigorously,  while  he 
thrust  the  other  into  his  breast  pocket;  "I'll 
be  brief.  I  don't  waste  no  man's  time  on  him. 
Do  I,  Mr.  Hancock.  My  colleague  Mr.  Hancock, 
Mr.  McLeod." 

George  Hancock,  who  had  been  dozing,  started, 
and  pulled  his  chair  a  little  nearer.  R.  McLeod's 
shrewd  eyes  swept  him  carelessly  and  returned  to  the 
face  of  Jimmy  Young. 

"That's  right,"  said  Mr.  Hancock,  a  little  vaguely. 
A  light  potation  always  made  him  sleepy. 

"You  bet  that's  right,"  continued  Jimmy,  draw- 

102 


THE  CANVASSERS 

ing  forth  a  bundle  of  stock  applications  held  by  an 
elastic  band,  shooting  his  cuff,  and  tapping  the  docu 
ments  briskly.  "We  are  very  careful,  Mr.  McLeod, 
with  our  shareholders'  time — " 

"I'm  no  a  shareholder  yet,"  said  R.  McLeod, 
cautiously;  "but  what  have  ye  there?" 

"I  have  here,"  roared  Jimmy  Young,  stripping 
off  the  elastic  with  a  snap — ' '  I  have  here,  sir-r,  some 
of  the  best  names  in  our  city." 

"Smith's  a  good  auld  Lowland  Scots  name,"  said 
R.  McLeod,  quizzically.  "Have  ye  got  that  there?" 

"No,  sir,"  returned  Jimmy,  his  knees  drawn  up 
and  his  eyes  on  the  sheaf  of  applications,  as  he 
shuffled  them  rapidly  and  dexterously.  "No,  sir, 
Smith  is  not  here,  but " — Jimmy  whipped  out  a  folded 
form  from  the  middle  of  the  package — "I  have  here 
a  name,  sir,  that  is  mighty  close  to  Smith,  when  you 
say  it  quick,  an'  carries  a  dam'  sight  more  weight 
than  the  name  of  Smith  ever  knew  how  to  carry — " 

"Now,  now,  now!"  said  R.  McLeod. 

"The  name,  sir,  of  Captain  John  Frith,  retired 
stockman,  known  from  one  end  of  this  broad  land 
to  the  other—" 

"He's  gey  well  known,"  said  R.  McLeod,  "tae 
be  on  the  wrong  side  o*  politics.  My  name's  no 
that  guid,  I'll  admit;  but  I'll  not  have  it  associated 
with  John  Frith's.  A  mon  must  dra'  the  line  some 
where." 

"Well,  then,"  continued  Jimmy  Young,  not  dis 
concerted,  but  rather  gathering  energy  as  he  pro 
ceeded,  "I  have  on  this  here  form  the  signature  of 
the  Honorable—" 

103 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

"Young  mon" — R.  McLeod  laid  down  his  pipe, 
leaned  forward,  and  clapped  on  the  shoulder  of 
Jimmy  Young  a  great,  hairy,  sinewy  hand  that  made 
even  that  robust  young  torso  quiver — "young  mon, 
puit  awa  your  captains  an'  your  honorables  an' 
your  colonels.  Puit  them  by,  an'  hark  tae  me  for 
a  wee.  How  wad  ye  like  a  jawb  in  my  store?" 

Jimmy  Young  pushed  his  stiff  hat  back  from  his 
forehead  and  listened,  dumb  and  staring.  The 
papers  fell  from  his  hand  to  the  floor,  and  were  re 
trieved  from  the  irreverent  breeze  by  the  furtively 
grinning  George  Hancock. 

"How  wad  ye  like  a  situation  in  my  store  here," 
went  on  R.  McLeod,  the  muscles  of  his  face  twitch 
ing  a  little,  "clerkin'  for  me  at,  say,  fifty  the  month?" 

Jimmy  Young  still  stared,  his  mouth  opening 
slightly. 

"Juist  now,"  continued  R.  McLeod,  "I'm  gey 
busy  wi'  thae  bills.  But  you  think  it  over,  boy,  an' 
come  awa  down  an'  see  me  again  before  ye  leave 
the  town.  I  like  that  ramstougerous  way  ye  have, 
an*  I'm  minded  tae  puit  yesell  in'  to  the  thresher- 
men,  this  fall.  Now" — R.  McLeod  stood  up — he 
was  a  big  man,  a  very  big  man,  when  he  stood  up 
and  squared  his  shoulders — "if  ye'll  juist  be  takin' 
your  leave,  wi'  your  friend,  I'll  get  along  with  these 
bills  I  have  waitin'."  He  put  his  hand  again  on 
Jimmy's  shoulder  and,  with  little  George  Hancock 
trotting  after,  edged  him  slowly  to  the  door. 

"Now,  mind  ye,"  he  said,  as  Jimmy,  in  a  dazed 
way,  and  George  Hancock,  like  a  marionette,  passed 
again  down  the  path  toward  the  picket  gate — "now, 

104 


THE  CANVASSERS 

mind  ye,  youngster,  I'm  in  airnest.  I'm  no  jaukin'. 
Be  canny." 

The  first  feature  of  Master  Jimmy  Young  to  move, 
as  the  two  turned  into  the  road  leading  down  to  the 
town,  was  his  eye.  The  iris  turned  slowly,  sus 
piciously,  challengingly,  until  it  reached  that  cor 
ner  of  the  visual  organ  next  to  George  Hancock. 
But  George's  tactful  face  expressed  merely  a  mild 
interest  in  the  landscape. 

"Fine  view  from  here,"  he  said,  kicking  a  little 
stone  in  the  wheel-rut. 

"To  hell  with  the  view,"  said  Jimmy  Young.  .  .  . 
"But — but,  by  the  holy  Mackinaw,  you  watch  what 
I  do  to  the  next  man  that  offers  me  a  job  clerkin' 
in  his  store!  Now,  just  for  that,  George,  I'm  goin' 
to  write  somebody  up  before  I  leave  this  place,  if 
I  have  to  stick  around  till  Christmas.  Christmas, 
mind.  Let's  try  whoever  lives  in  that — that  there." 
Feigning  himself  at  a  loss  for  a  descriptive  term, 
Jimmy  indicated  with  a  jerk  of  his  thumb  the  house 
of  Matthew  Rodgers.  "It's  near  six,  now.  We'll 
go  over  there  an'  lay  for  him  when  he  comes  home 
to  his  supper.  We'll  rush  him  off  his  feet.  We'll 
have  his  John  Hancock  down  f'r  fifty  shares  before 
he  knows  whether  this  is  Saturday  or  a  week  from 
We'n'sday!" 

The  two  were  half-way  up  the  hill  at  the  top  of 
which  stood  Matthew  Rodgers's  house  when  they 
were  overtaken  and  passed  by  a  long,  sad,  dark  man, 
shaped  like  a  mark  of  interrogation.  His  knees 
bowed  as  he  walked.  His  chest  was  concave  and 
his  back  convex.  He  carried  an  armful  of  paper 

105 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

parcels,  and  George  Hancock,  glancing  up  as  he 
passed,  eating  up  the  furlongs  with  long,  slow  steps, 
noticed  that  he  carried  his  head  high  and  his  eyes 
calculatingly  half -shut,  muttering  to  himself  and 
moving  the  thumb  of  his  free  hand  over  the  fingers 
in  slow  enumeration.  He  had  a  black  beard  and 
a  prim  little  felt  hat. 

The  man  went  on,  walking  with  his  slow,  scissors- 
like  stride,  till  he  topped  the  crest  of  the  hill.  He 
passed  behind  the  house  and  disappeared. 

When  Jimmy  Young  and  George  Hancock  reached 
the  back  of  Matthew  Rodgers's  house  they  found 
the  dark  man  sawing  rails  into  stove-lengths  with 
a  buck-saw.  Behind  him  was  the  little  alley  between 
the  stone  milk-house  and  the  sod  wall  of  the  cabin, 
down  which  one  went  to  enter  either  the  milk-house 
or  the  main  building.  A  stout  old  gray  woman,  with 
freckled  arms  and  bare  feet,  her  hair  about  her  face 
in  a  sibylline  aspect,  stood  in  the  alley,  drying  her 
hands  on  her  apron  and  delivering  some  croaking 
message  about  supper  being  ready  waiting,  and 
what  in  the  name  of  sense  was  the  tall,  dark  man 
doing  with  his  store  clothes  on  bucking  wood. 

"He  don't  look  like  a  married  man,"  said  George 
Hancock,  sotto  wee;  "he's  spruced  up  too  good. 
Yet  lis'en  to  the  jawin'  she's  a-handin'  out!" 

Jimmy  Young  approached  the  man  at  the  saw- 
horse,  who,  having  bent  his  long  body  into  a  sil 
houette  like  a  carpenter's  square,  was  laying  a  bur 
den  of  wood  blocks  across  one  stringy  wrist  from 
which  the  coat-sleeve  had  been  carefully  pulled 
back.  He  straightened  up,  with  a  slow,  unfolding 

106 


THE  CANVASSERS 

movement,  as  he  saw  Jimmy  Young,  and  stood  with 
the  gathered  sticks  held  out  from  him  between  his 
wrists  and  hands,  staring  down  at  the  two. 

"It  ain't  a  bad  evening,"  said  Jimmy  Young. 

"It  might  be  worser  without  no  trouble,"  said  the 
tall,  dark  man,  in  a  voice  like  wind  in  a  chimney. 
"Who  are  you?" 

"Fine  place  you  have  here,"  complimented  George 
Hancock.  George  felt  that  he  must  sometimes  share 
in  the  work  of  canvassing  to  a  further  extent  than 
merely  witnessing  the  signatures  of  applicants  for 
stock. 

"Who  are  you?"  repeated  the  long  man,  in  an 
insistent  monotone,  turning  his  hands  so  that  the 
weight  of  the  sticks  was  shifted  from  the  under  to 
the  upper  wrist. 

"Ask  ye  them  inside,"  commanded  the  sibyl  with 
a  toothless  but  coquettish  smile  at  Jimmy  Young. 
"Have  ye  no  manners,  Mattha?" 

"Come  in,"  said  the  man  with  the  wood,  obedi 
ently,  turning  and  leading  the  way  down  the  little 
lane  at  his  scissors-like  walk.  The  sibyl  put  a  wisp 
of  iron-gray  hair  behind  her  ear,  cocked  her  head 
playfully  at  Jimmy  Young,  and  gave  George  Han 
cock  a  little  disdainful  shove  forward  with  her  elbow 
as  she  held  the  door  open. 

"Now,"  said  Matthew  Rodgers,  putting  down  the 
wood  and  turning  toward  the  two  with  a  resolute 
air,  "who  are  youz,  again?  I  don't  want  to  buy 
no  books;  an'  I  don't  do  no  business  with  travelers 
exzept  down  to  my  store  there.  If  a  man  can't 
come  home  to  heez  own  house  without  being  pestered 

107 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

to  death  with  salesmen,  answer  me,  where  can  he 
go? 

"Bezides,"  the  householder  continued,  cavern- 
ously,  hanging  the  prim  felt  hat  on  a  nail,  suspend 
ing  his  coat  beneath  it,  and  pouring  water  into  a 
granite  basin  that  stood  on  a  bench  under  the  win 
dow — "bezides,  there's  more  to  a  man's  life  than 
business,  business,  business — " 

"Maybe  there  is,"  put  in  the  sibyl,  suddenly  and 
aggressively,  while  Matthew,  with  no  protest  against 
being  stopped  in  the  middle  of  his  sentence,  con 
tinued  to  soap  his  neck  in  his  slow,  melancholy  way ; 
"but,  all  the  samey,  it's  about  all  you  men  thinks 
of.  Wait  till  the  weemen  gets  a  say,  Mattha — " 
She  broke  off  and  looked  askance  at  Master  Jimmy 
Young.  But  that  brisk  young  gentleman  had  not 
been  idle. 

As  Matthew  straightened  up,  scrubbing  his  face 
with  the  towel,  Jimmy,  his  hand  full  of  papers, 
stepped  forward,  slapped  the  documents  smartly 
with  his  hand,  and  shot  at  his  host  this  rapid-fire 
of  questions: 

"Mr.  Rodgers,  d'you  want  to  take  your  share  in 
th'  march  o'  progress?  D'you  want  a  share  in  the 
prosperity  of  this  great  Western  country?  D'you 
want  to  move  out  of  this  sod  house  o1  yours  into  a 
handsome  villa — " 

"Mattha  '11  never  marry  now,"  came  an  inter 
rupting  murmur  from  the  sibyl,  where  she  stood  over 
the  sputtering  bacon,  pressing  it  down  with  her  fork 
to  hurry  it;  "he's  waited  too  long.  Nobody  would 
have  him.  Anyway,  I  got  a  say  in  that,  so  I  have, 

108 


THE  CANVASSERS 

Mr.  Man.  Thirty  years  I  b'en  tied  down  in  this 
tepee,  a-dish-washin'  and  a-scrubbin'  and  a-mendin' 
pants  and  a-teachin'  that  orphan  calf  to  drink,  this 
spring,  till  my  first  finger  was  mighty  nigh  sucked  to 
the  bone,  an'  now  the  other  day  in  the  stable  he  up 
and  bunts  me  into  the  middle  o'  next  week,  for 
nothin',  like  a  man  would. ...  I  tell  you,  young  man  " 
— the  sibyl  turned  toward  Jimmy  waiting  impatient 
ly  to  proceed  with  his  stock  argument — "and  you, 
old  Good-for-nothin',"  turning  toward  Mr.  Hancock, 
sitting  grinningly  in  his  characteristic  attitude,  one 
hand  holding  the  wrist  of  the  other;  and  lastly  to 
her  brother,  now  removing  his  celluloid  collar  that 
it  might  not  impede  the  automatic  rise  and  fall  of 
his  "Adam's-apple"  at  the  supper-table;  shaking 
her  frying-fork  like  an  oratorical  forefinger  at  each 
in  turn — "an'  you,  that  the  time  has  now  came — 
Mattha,  throw  ye  out  thon  wash-water;  am  I  to  be 
forever  pickin*  up  after  y'  ? — the  time  has  came  when 
the  weemen  has  to  have  their  say!" 

"Now,  now,  Jezzshie,"  Matthew  intoned,  sooth 
ingly,  sitting  down  to  the  tea-table,  taking  a  half- 
mechanical  look  at  the  level  of  the  coal-oil  in  the 
lamp  and  economically  turning  the  wick  down 
lower,  "what-all  do  I  do  thad  I^shouldn*  do?  Do 
I  dreengk — do  I  szhmoke — do  I  choo?  Eh, 
do  I?" 

"No,  you  don't" — Miss  Jessie  Rodgers  emptied 
the  bacon  upon  a  plate,  took  it  over,  thumped  it 
down  on  the  oilcloth  table-cover,  and  went  back  to 
get  the  tea — "you  don't  do  any  o'  them  things — but 
you  don't  for  a  good  reeson.  You're  too  close. 

109 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

That's  why.  You're  too  close.  You'd  skin  a  louse 
for  the  hide  an'  tallow.  Aha-a,  yous  men!"  Miss 
Jessie  took  the  cream-jug  out  of  the  cupboard,  faced 
her  three  hearers  again,  and  shook  the  empty  jug 
at  each.  "Aha-a,  yous  men!  Wait  '11  the  weemen 
gets  their  say.  It  won't  be  long,  I  tell  yus." 

With  this  parting  prediction  the  sibyl  went  out 
to  the  milk-house  to  fill  her  vessel  with  separated 
milk.  Master  Jimmy  Young,  in  two  steps,  was 
across  the  room  with  a  chair  which  he  placed  be 
neath  him  at  a  point  facing  Matthew  Rodgers's 
munching  side  face. 

"Now,  Mr.  Rodgers" — he  snapped  his  left  fore 
finger  smartly  against  the  sheaf  of  papers  held  up 
in  his  right  hand — "I  want  you  to  let  me  put  you 
next  to  a  good  thing — " 

" — gets  their  say,"  resumed  the  sibyl,  coming 
back  for  a  match,  snatching  one  from  a  box  at  a 
side-table,  and  swishing  vigorously  back  to  the  door. 
"If  there  wun't  be  a  change  then,  ye  can  call  me 
what  y'  like.  Wait  till—" 

She  was  gone  again.  As  the  door  slammed  Jimmy 
took  up  his  sentence  where  he  had  left  off. 

" — next  to  a  good  thing,  Mr.  Rodgers.  Now,  in 
the  first  place,  I  know  you're  an  honest  man,  like 
I  am  myself,  sir — yes,  sir;  an'  I  wouldn't  no  more 
want  to  get  you  mixed  into  a  crooked  deal,  sir,  than 
I  would  want  my  own  father  for  to  get  tangled  up 
in  one.  But  I've  got  somethin'  here,  Mr.  Rodgers, 
that  '11  put  you  on  Easy  Street  —  yes,  sir,  Easy 
Street,  I  said, — so  quick  it  '11  make  your  head 


no 


THE  CANVASSERS 

"Head  swim;  yes,  sir-ree,"  echoed  Mr.  Hancock, 
at  the  appropriate  moment;  "yes,  sir-ra?-bob!" 
With  this  the  little  man  put  his  hands,  one  across 
the  other,  in  his  lap,  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with 
his  beard  tilted  up,  and  looked  calculatively  thought 
ful. 

"No,  szir" — Mr.  Rodgers  reversed,  in  his  jew's- 
harp  voice.  "Now  see  here,  youz;  some  people 
sayz  I'm  near;  some  sayz  I'm  miserly,  but  all  I  am 
is  careful.  I  don't  want  for  to  see  nothin'  go  to 
wazte.  Understand  that.  I  never  wazte  goods  on 
givin'  over-weight,  an'  I  never  wazte  good  money 
a-speculatin'.  It  don't  matter  a  continental  to  me 
what  people  sayz.  I  know  I'm  right — " 

The  door  opened,  with  the  sibyl,  who  had  evident 
ly  continued  her  argument  as  a  monologue  all  the 
time  she  was  in  the  milk-house,  breathlessly  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence: 

" — an'  when  the  weemen  gets  to  wear  the  pants, 
I  tell  you  they  wun't  feed  no  more  calves,  an'  the 
men  will  do  the  milkin',  an*  put  on  aperns,  an'  turn 
the  separator  theirselves — " 

Jimmy  edged  closer  to  Matthew,  patting  the  papers 
with  his  hand  and  bursting  with  sulphureous  opinions 
about  "weemen"  that  the  situation  hardly  admitted 
his  putting  into  audible  words ;  then  a  brilliant  idea 
flash-lighted  into  his  mind. 

He  crossed  the  room  in  three  strides  and  thrust 
his  bundle  of  documents  before  the  nose  of  the  sibyl 
so  suddenly  that  she  winced  and  blinked. 

"Say,  you  got  a  little  money  salted  down  any 
wheres,  Missis?"  he  blurted,  giving  Miss  Jessie  three 

in 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

or  four  staccato  little  taps  on  the  shoulder  with  his 
documents.  "Hey?" 

"I'm  not  'missis,'  an'  you  know  it,"  snapped  the 
sibyl.  Her  voice  continued  sharp,  but  she  drew  in 
her  chin  and  tilted  her  gray  head  coquettishly  as 
Jimmy  sidled  close  and  leaned  his  fresh-colored,  ag 
gressive  young  face  down  to  hers.  "An'  what  is  it 
to  you,  you  impident  young  galoot,  if  I  have  got 
money  in  the  bank?" 

"Let's  set  down  some  place,"  said  Jimmy,  por 
tentously,  "an'  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  Over  yon 
der  on  the  tool-chest  is  as  good  as  anywheres.  Come 
on!  The  chanct  of  your  life,  ma'am — the  chanct 
of  your  life,  I  tell  you!" 

Matthew  paused  long  enough  from  his  bacon  to 
turn  about  and  signal  an  injunction  with  his  fork. 
"Don't  have  nothin'  to  do  with  it,  Jezzshie.  Come 
on  an'  eat  your  supper." 

"You  'tend  to  your  own  business,  Mattha.  I'll 
come  to  my  supper  when  I  get  good  an'  ready,  and 
not  a  minute  before,"  retorted  Miss  Jessie,  as  she 
preceded  Jimmy  to  the  tool-chest  and  sat  down, 
looking  prim  but  not  ill-pleased  as  he  hitched  an 
unconscious  knee  into  close  contact  and  leaned  over 
confidentially  till  his  broad  shoulder  touched  the 
hale  fullness  of  her  bosom  and  his  temple  bumped 
hers.  Proximity  was  the  thing,  in  stock-selling, 
was  the  theory  of  Master  Jimmy  Young. 

Matthew  punctuated  with  solemn  proverbs  of 
warning  the  ensuing  twenty  minutes  of  brisk  ex 
pository  conversation  with  the  alternately  bridling 
and  glowing  sibyl;  but  he  might  as  well  have  saved 

112 


THE  CANVASSERS 

his  breath  to  cool  his  tea;  for  before  Messrs.  Young 
and  Hancock  left  the  house  of  Matthew  Rodgers 
that  evening  Jimmy  had  obtained  Miss  Jessie's  ap 
plication  for  twenty-five  shares  of  Great  Beaver 
Trust  Company  stock,  and  Mr.  Hancock  had  wit 
nessed  the  signature. 


IX 

A  REUNION 

THE  village  was  wide  awake  with  clinkings  at 
,  the  blacksmith  shop  and  coughing  of  gasolene- 
engines  in  the  grain-elevators,  when  Jimmy  Young 
and  George  Hancock  emerged  from  breakfast  next 
morning,  to  smoke  their  cigars  on  the  end  of  the 
Commercial's  skids. 

"I  wonder  when  they'll  get  this  ol*  bug-shelter 
moved,"  said  George  Hancock,  giving  the  skid  a 
little  kick  as  they  sat  down.  The  remark  did  not 
arise  from  any  special  and  sudden  interest,  but 
merely  from  the  talkativeness  of  after  breakfast. 

"That  don't  matter  to  us,"  said  Jimmy  Young, 
pushing  his  hat  back, '  sitting  down,  stretching  out 
his  legs  to  keep  the  knees  of  his  trousers  from  bag 
ging,  and  preparing  for  expressing  himself  at  some 
length.  "That  don't  matter  to  us,  George.  The 
way  they  do  things  in  this  town,  they'll  probably  have 
two  or  three  Chris'mas  dinners  in  her  yet  here  in 
the  middle  o'  the  road" — Jimmy  blew  out  a  cloud 
of  cigar  smoke  which  resulted  in  the  sudden  rout  of 
a  platoon  of  mosquitoes  that,  armed  to  the  teeth, 
had  been  advancing  upon  the  two — "but  th'  thing 

114 


A  REUNION 

for  us  to  think  about  is  this,  George  Hancock: 
we  come  out  along  this  line  to  make  a  record,  a 
record  for  country  sellin',  didn't  we?  Eh?  Well, 
we  'ain't  wrote  one  share  o'  stock  since  we  left  town. 
Now,  who  have  we  got  to  tell  that  to,  when  we  git 
back  to  the  office?  You  know!  We  got  to  tell  it  to 
Darius  Hell  Whaley.  We  got  to  tell  D.  L.  that  the 
Great  Beaver  is  stuck  for  two  hundred  of  expense 
money  an'  our  salaries,  an'  nothin'  to  show  for  it — 
for  we  can't  count  them  twenty  shares  o'  John 
Frith's  that  D.  L.  told  us  to  go  an'  get,  as  he  was 
makin'  the  captain  a  present  of  them  to  get  his 
name  on  the  firm's  stationery.  Nothin'  to  show  for 
it,  George — abs'lutely  nothin'.  Now,  I  ain't  ascared 
of  no  man  livin';  but,  before  I  face  old  D.  L.  with 
a  bunch  o'  vouchers  in  one  fist  an'  nothin'  in  the 
other,  I  want  some  insurance  in  a  good  company. 
I  want  a  sick-an' -accident  policy,  George.  Now 
what  are  we  goin'  to  do  about  it?" 

Little  old  George  Hancock  was  much  too  experi 
enced  in  Jimmy  Young's  habits  of  catechism  to  take 
out  of  Jimmy's  mouth  any  suggestion  he  might  be 
about  to  make. 

"I  tell  you  what  we're  a-going  to  do,  George" — 
Jimmy  Young  hitched  close,  banged  his  hand  down 
on  Mr.  Hancock's  knee,  and  made  his  voice  and  face 
intense — "we're  going  to  hire  a  livery  rig,  drive  out 
among  the  haystacks,  an'  write  up  every  Rube 
in  this  township  b'fore  night.  Then  we'll  come 
back  an'  have  one  hell  of  a  blow-out.  Hey,  George  ? 
Is  it  a  go?"  Mr.  Young  straightened  back  with 
a  jerk,  his  cigar  jammed  in  the  corner  of  his 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

mouth,  his  head  cocked,  and  his  eyes  glowing  ag 
gressively. 

"It's  a  go,  Jim,"  Mr.  Hancock  piped,  raising  one 
forefinger  and  describing  a  prim  little  circle  in  the 
air  with  it.  "Hurray!" 

John  Beamish,  with  a  flat  carpenter's  pencil  be 
hind  his  ear,  and  the  pieces  of  his  new  hay-rack 
ready  to  be  fitted  together,  looked  up  from  shavings 
and  sawdust  to  see  the  livery  rig  turn  in  at  his  gate. 

The  farmer's  mind  was  always  most  active  when 
his  hands  were  busiest ;  and  as  he  worked  he  planned. 
The  automobile  was  on  his  mind  again.  John 
Beamish  felt  he  must  keep  up  the  Beamish  name  in 
the  settlement  by  buying  an  automobile.  The  diffi 
culty  was,  however,  that  automobiles  cost  money — 
not  only  money,  but  heaps  of  money;  and  John  was 
loth  to  set  his  bank  account  back  two  thousand  dol 
lars.  The  whole  problem,  as  it  presented  itself  to 
him,  was  that  of  picking  up  two  thousand  "stray" 
dollars. 

Jimmy  Young  pulled  up  the  smartest  livery  team 
in  Oakburn  with  a  jerk,  passed  the  reins  to  George 
Hancock,  leaped  out  of  the  top-buggy,  and,  striding 
over,  stopped  above  the  place  where  John  Beamish, 
blowing  the  sawdust  from  the  teeth  of  his  hand 
saw,  knelt  over  the  notched  and  bolted  length  of 
planking  which  was  to  form  part  of  the  foundation 
of  his  rack. 

"Great  farmin'  weather,"  said  Jimmy. 

John  Beamish  stood  up,  eying  the  new-comer  with 
his  customary  glance  of  slow  appraisal. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  passing  his  palm  down  his  hip 
116 


A  REUNION 

to  dry  the  sweat  from  it,  and  extending  it  to  meet 
Jimmy's.     "Yes,  yes.     Great  weather." 

"Mr. — ?"  Jimmy  shook  the  hand  interrogatively 
and  waited,  his  head  thrust  forward. 

"Beamish  is  the  name,"  said  the  farmer,  evenly. 

"Mr.  Beamish,  my  name  is  Young,  and  this  is 
Mr.  Hancock,  both  representing  the  Great  Beaver 
Trust  Company.  You've  heard  of  it,  I  pr'sume." 

"I  have  not,*'  said  John  Beamish. 

"Well,  you're  goin'  to  hear  of  it  now,"  said  Jim 
my,  affably,  "an'  when  I've  done  you'll  say  it's  th' 
best  news  you  ever  heard  in  your  life.  The  develop 
ment  of  the  Great  Beaver  Trust,  Mr.  Beamish" 
(Jimmy  was  quoting  from  the  managerial  speech  of 
Darius  L.  at  the  last  annual  meeting)  "has  exceeded 
the  most  sangwine  expectations  of  the  durrectors." 

"I  don't  doubt  your  word,"  said  John  Beamish, 
in  his  heavy  way.  He  had  commenced  thinking 
hard,  brushing  up  his  mustache  with  his  usual  slow, 
reflective  gesture. 

The  new  rack  was  all  completed,  except  the  fitting 
together,  which  would  take  only  a  few  minutes  and 
could  be  done  at  any  time.  Why  should  he  not 
spend  an  hour  or  two  of  a  morning  in  which  he  had 
nothing  particularly  pressing  to  attend  to,  in  listen 
ing  to  what  this  bluff  young  citizen  had  to  say  about 
his  trust  company?  It  might  not,  probably  would 
not,  be  worth  his  while,  but  it  would  not  cost  any 
thing  to  listen.  There  was  always  the  slim  chance 
that  he  might  hear  something  which  would  help 
him  to  solve  the  problem  of  the  automobile  and  the 
inviolable  bank  account. 
9  117 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

"Put  in  your  team,"  said  John  Beamish,  leading 
the  way  back  to  the  buggy  and  unhooking  the  traces 
of  the  horses.  "The  missus  will  be  hus'lin'  dinner 
shortly." 

Mrs.  John  Beamish  was  a  quelled  little  woman,  a 
subject  of  two  rulers — John  as  monarch,  and  Miss 
Mabel  Beamish  as  queen  consort.  The  latter  had 
been,  in  a  finicky  way,  cleaning  the  knives  with 
bath  brick  and  a  piece  of  potato;  but  had,  as  a 
glance  toward  the  window  acquainted  her  with  the 
character  of  the  "company"  her  father  was  bring 
ing  into  the  house,  scattered  the  knives  in  all  direc 
tions  and  whisked  up-stairs. 

The  Galician  domestic,  who  had  a  face  like  an 
apple  pie,  was  scrubbing  the  kitchen  floor.  Mrs. 
Beamish,  closing  the  oven  on  bread  that  rose, 
domed  and  savory  and  browning,  from  a  pan  on 
the  upper  grate,  presented  a  diffident  red  face  in 
the  kitchen  doorway. 

Mrs.  Beamish 's  pride  of  place  had  not  increased 
with  her  husband's  growing  bank  account.  She  was 
still  the  same  humble,  hard-working  farmer's  wife  she 
had  been  on  the  homestead  twenty  years  before. 
She  had  something  of  a  driven  look,  although  John 
Beamish  did  not  drive.  He  merely  moved  along  in 
his  stubborn,  slow  way  and  drew  his  household 
with  him  along  paths  that  he  himself  chose. 

There  was  no  ceremony  of  introduction  to 
"Mother,"  any  more  than  there  would  have  been 
to  one  of  the  chairs  that  she  set  out  and  dusted  with 
her  apron  before  she  withdrew  into  the  kitchen 
again. 

118 


A  REUNION 

"Thanky,  Missis,"  beamed  Jimmy  Young,  put 
ting  his  hat  down  on  the  table  and  sitting  down 
vigorously,  thrusting  out  each  foot  in  turn  to  facili 
tate  the  little  hitch  he  gave  to  each  trousers  leg  above 
the  knee.  He  reached  into  his  pocket  for  cigars. 
"Smoke,  Mr.  Beamish.  Smoke,  George." 

John  Beamish  took  his  cigar,  lit  it  rather  awkward 
ly,  and  held  it  between  forefinger  and  thumb,  like  a 
pipe.  He  had  never  in  his  life  committed  the  ex 
travagance  of  buying  a  cigar,  although  he  had  taken 
economical  pleasure  from  a  pipe  since  he  was  seven 
teen.  The  others  deftly  nipped  and  lit  up;  Mr. 
Hancock,  who  was  an  inveterate  smoker,  discharg 
ing  the  smoke  densely  through  mouth  and  nostrils, 
and  becoming  quickly  invisible  down  to  the  knee. 
Jimmy  Young  smoked  in  little  explosions,  like  puffs 
from  a  gun. 

Mrs.  Beamish,  coming  on  apologetic  tiptoes  to  the 
door  between  the  kitchen  and  the  room  where  the 
men  sat,  closed  it  softly;  not  that  she  intended  thus 
to  enter  any  protest  against  the  cigars,  but  because 
she  always  judged  by  her  sense  of  smell  when  to 
look  at  the  bread  in  the  oven,  and  the  cigar  smoke 
made  her  olfactories  of  no  virtue. 

"Well,"  said  Jimmy,  fitting  his  cigar  in  the  cor 
ner  of  his  mouth,  turning  his  head  on  one  side,  and 
slipping  his  hand  within  his  coat  (ready  to  bring  out 
at  the  psychological  moment  the  sheaf  of  papers 
in  the  elastic  band),  "we've  come  out,  my  partner 
George  Hancock  an'  I,  to  spy  out  the  land,  like  the 
Isrulites.  We  see  on  every  hand" — Jimmy  waved 
his  cigar  in  the  air — "th'  evidences  of  an  onparrleld 

119 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

prosperity — all  over  this  great  Western  country." 
(Darius  L.,  who  was  the  Napoleon  Bonaparte  of 
stock-canvassers,  always  said,  "Get  'em  enthused 
first,  an'  you  can  sell  'em  anything"). 

"Crops,"  continued  Jimmy  Young,  "is  ex'lent. 
The  prospec's  of  a  bounchuss  harvest  was  never 
greater,  Mr.  Beamish — never  greater,  I  say.  Your 
own  crop,  Mr.  Beamish,  I  am  glad  to  see,  is  among 
th'  best.  In  fact,  th'  best  I've  seen.  As  I  drove 
along  by  your  fence  this  mornin',  Mr.  Beamish,  I 
says  to  George  there,  says  I,  'George,  if  I  wasn't  an 
emploi-ee  o'  the  Great  Beaver  Trust  Company,  I'd 
be  a  farmer.'  But  I  am  an  emploi-ee  of  that  com 
pany,  Mr.  Beamish;  an'  I  say  to  you,  right  here  an' 
now,  I'm  proud  of  it!  Th'  Great  Beaver  has  b'en 
established  at  a  time  when  the  eyes  of  all  the  nations 
is  turned  west'ard"  (this  was  a  good,  round  clause  of 
Darius  L.'s),  "an'  it  draws  its  sust'nance  from  the 
wealth  an'  the  promise  of  millions  of  acres  an' 
millions  of  dollars." 

John  Beamish  sat  with  his  arm  hooked  over  the 
back  of  his  chair,  and  his  features,  after  a  country 
habit,  working  in  imitation  of  those  of  the  speaker. 

"The  guv'ment  of  this  country" — Jimmy  paused, 
and  looked  carefully  at  his  host — "is — " 

John  Beamish  cleared  his  throat  and  finished  the 
sentence,  as  Jimmy  had  intended  he  should  do. 

" — is  in  to  stay,"  he  said,  taking  his  arm  off  the 
back  of  his  chair  and  dropping  his  elbows  on  his 
knees.  "Yes,  sir,  it's  in  to  stay,  an'  a  good  thing 
for  the  country  it  is,  too." 

"The  guv'ment  of  this  country,  Mr.  Beamish," 
120 


A  REUNION 

Jimmy  went  on,  having  established  the  point  he 
wanted,  "is  in,  as  you  say,  to  stay;  and  it  has  among 
its  members  no  abler  representative  than  Captain 
John  Frith,  M.P.P.  for  this  constitooency.  A  man, 
Mr.  Beamish,  of  sound  judgment;  a  man  that's 
proved  his  business  ability  by  his  own  success  in 
life— " 

"He's  a  good  man,  all  right,"  said  John  Beamish, 
clearing  his  throat  again,  shifting  his  hat  on  his 
head,  and  beating  a  tattoo  with  his  toes  on  the  floor. 
These  were  all  signs  that  John  Beamish  was  becom 
ing  "enthused."  A  farmer  has  to  go  through  a  lot 
of  what  is  called  on  the  stage  "business,"  before 
he  gets  his  enthusiasm  to  the  boiling-over  point  of 
an  opinion. 

"Well,"  said  Jimmy,  triumphantly,  "do  you  want 
to  see  the  autograph  of  Captain  John  Frith,  M.P.P.  ?" 
Jimmy's  fingers,  which  had  not  yet  been  withdrawn 
from  his  breast  pocket,  gripped,  in  preparation  for 
the  inevitable  answer,  the  captain's  stock  application, 
which  he  had  previously  arranged  for  convenient 
withdrawal  by  leaving  it  outside  the  elastic  band. 
"Do  you  want  to  see  his  own  John  Hancock?  Eh? 
There,  then!" 

The  form  was  whisked  out,  flipped  open,  and  held 
before  the  farmer's  eyes. 

"Writes  a  great  fist,  doesn't  he?"  said  Jimmy, 
folding  his  arms  complacently  as  the  former  reached 
for  the  printed  form.  "Twenty  shares  he's  got,  see? 
An'  that's  only  a  beginning,  the  captain  told  me 
when  he  signed  up." 

"He's  a  shareholder,  eh?"  said  John  Beamish, 

121 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

slowly,  as  he  regarded  the  document.  He  looked 
at  the  face  of  it,  turned  it  slowly  over,  and  looked 
at  the  back. 

"Th'  ain't  nothin'  on  the  back."  said  Jimmy; 
' 'the  front  side  is  the  important  part.  Now,  Mr. 
Beamish,  see  here" — he  drew  his  chair  into  the  cus 
tomary  juxtaposition,  his  knees  spread  out,  and  his 
forefinger  pointing  his  words  with  little  taps  on  the 
farmer's  forearm — "I  never  came  drivin'  out  here 
to  sell  you  stock  ag'in'  your  will.  I  come  out  to 
show  you  a  good  thing,  Mr.  Beamish,  an'  to  let  you 
in  on  it  if  you  want  to  come  in.  If  you  don't" — 
Jimmy  spread  out  his  palms — "there's  no  hard  feel- 
in's.  Now  what  will  it  be?  She's  goin'  at  a  hun 
dred  an'  forty  now;  increase  to  sixty  next  year,  sure. 
Ten  shares  is  good;  twenty's  better;  fifty's  dam' 
good.  Any  amount's  ex'lent,  Mr.  Beamish.  What 
ever  cash  you  ken  spare,  down — the  more  the  better, 
because  when  she's  paid  she's  paid  an'  it's  off  y'r 
mind — an'  your  own  time  on  your  notes.  Now  you 
like  the  stock;  I  ken  see  that  a'ready.  Mr.  Beam 
ish" — Jimmy  pulled  out  his  application  blanks  and 
his  fountain  pen — "how  much  Great  Beaver  Trust 
Company  stock  do  you  want  to  subscribe  for?  Th' 
more  you  have  th'  more  you'll  make  when  the  in 
crease  comes.  Increase  o'  twenty  dollars  per  share 
before  this  time  next  year.  On  a  fifty-share  holdin', 
there's  a  clear  profit  of  a  thousand  dollars  without 
liftin'  a  finger.  Small  cash  payment  secures  it. 
Now,  now,  what  '11  it  be?" 

"I'll  take,"  said  John  Beamish,  slowly,  looking 
at  the  signature  on  the  application  he  held  in  his 

122 


A  REUNION 

hand,  and  thinking  of  the  money  he  needed  for  his 
automobile,  "one  hundred  shares." 

"That's  doin'  it!"  roared  Jimmy,  scribbling 
rapidly,  "that's  doin'  it.  Here — sign  here,  Mr. 
Beamish !"  Jimmy,  as  he  held  out  the  pad  of  forms, 
ran  his  fingers  excitedly  through  his  hair,  and 
handed  the  farmer  his  fountain  pen.  John  Beam 
ish,  in  the  scrawling  but  clearly  written  hand  in 
which  he  took  a  certain  pride,  signed  his  name. 

"What  cash  payment  will  you  make  now,  Mr.— 
Mr.  Beamish?"  said  Jimmy,  in  his  "straight  busi 
ness"  tone,  drawing  out  his  receipt-book. 

"I  will  make  a  cash  payment,"  said  John  Beamish, 
taking  a  bill  from  an  old  tobacco-sack  that  he  had 
extracted  from  his  pocket,  unfolding  it,  looking  at 
both  sides  of  it,  stripping  it  twice  between  his  fingers 
to  make  sure  it  was  not  two  bills,  and  passing  it  over 
slowly — "a  cash  payment  of  five  dollars." 

The  stairway  up  which  Miss  Mabel  Beamish  had 
passed  so  briskly  at  the  approach  of  the  visitors  was 
boarded  in  with  a  single  ply  of  boards.  In  one  of 
the  boards,  near  the  top  of  the  stairway,  was  a  small 
knot-hole  at  which  one  might,  from  the  second  step 
down,  obtain  a  fine  prospect  of  that  portion  of  the 
room  where  the  three  men  sat. 

To  this  knot-hole  Miss  Mabel,  who  had  finished 
what  one  of  her  girl  acquaintances  called  "titivat 
ing,"  was  preparing  circumspectly  to  apply  her  eye. 
She  was  a  pretty  girl,  with  a  certain  "spoiled" 
piquance  of  pursed  lips  and  tilted  chin;  but  the 
effect  of  her  good  looks  was  a  little  neutralized  by 
the  circumstance  that  full  consciousness  of  her 

123 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

endowments  abode  with  her  for  fourteen  hours  out 
of  the  twenty-four — at  all  times,  that  is  to  say, 
except  while  she  was  asleep. 

She  leaned  down,  put  a  wisp  of  brown  hair  be 
hind  her  ear,  and  brought  her  eye  close  to  the  little 
round  hole  in  the  board.  Almost  immediately  she 
withdrew  it  with  a  little  start  and  gasp. 

"Well,  now!"  she  breathed,  staring  down,  with  a 
little  flush,  at  the  receding  row  of  steps  beneath  her, 
"of  all  the—him!" 

Catching  her  breath  a  little,  and  with  increased 
caution,  Miss  Mabel  looked  again.  She  saw  her 
father  sign  the  slip  of  paper  and  pass  it  back  to 
Jimmy.  A  moment  later  the  mother  opened  the 
kitchen  door,  looked  at  her  husband  in  timid  in 
quiry,  and,  as  John  Beamish  nodded,  came  in  to 
lay  the  table  for  dinner. 

At  this  Miss  Mabel  Beamish  stood  up  in  the 
stair  passage,  shook  down  and  patted  her  skirt  into 
neatness,  looking  at  the  back  of  it  over  each  shoulder 
alternately,  drew  her  gold  locket  to  the  center  of 
her  dress-bosom,  stood  still  a  moment  on  the  step, 
then,  her  breath  coming  and  going  quickly  and  a 
fine  color  in  her  cheeks,  stepped  down-stairs  and  out 
into  the  room. 

"Let  me  set  the  dinner-table,  mah,"  she  said,  in 
her  sweetest  company  voice. 

Mother  Beamish  accepted  this  offer  gratefully, 
and  went  back  into  the  kitchen  to  dish  out  the 
vegetables. 

Jimmy  Young  let  the  remark  he  was  about  to 
make  concerning  the  early  listing  of  Great  Beaver 

124 


A  REUNION 

shares  on  the  stock-market  trail  off  into  an  indis 
tinct  murmur  as  Miss  Mabel  Beamish  stepped  into 
view  and  tapped  smartly  past  his  chair  on  her  way 
to  the  cupboard.  John  Beamish,  holding  in  his 
hand  the  receipt  with  Jimmy's  ostentatious  signa 
ture  on  the  bottom  of  it,  and  thinking  hard  of  the 
five  dollars  it  represented,  did  not  see  the  blue  eyes 
and  brown  cross  glances,  nor  the  warning  shake  of 
Miss  Mabel's  bird-like  head,  nor  Jimmy's  almost 
said  '"Lo,  stranger"  suppressed  abruptly  to  a  gulp. 

With  a  smart  and  saucy  swirl  of  skirts  Mabel 
Beamish  drew  the  table-cloth  from  the  sideboard, 
shook  it  out  deftly  and  spread  it  over  the  table, 
and  set  on  a  tumbler  of  sweet  peas.  The  dishes 
came  next,  laid  in  place  with  soft  little  bumps,  and 
followed  by  the  jangle  of  swiftly  spread  forks, 
spoons,  and  knives.  The  girl  did  not  glance  at 
Jimmy  as  she  worked,  but  the  color  deepened  in  her 
cheeks. 

"I  dunno,"  said  John  Beamish,  aloud,  presently — 
" young  fellow,  I  dunno." 

Jimmy  started  a  little  and  looked  around.  But 
the  farmer's  eyes  were  not  on  his  daughter. 

"I  dunno,  after  all,"  said  John  Beamish,  a  little 
sheepishly,  " whether  I'll  take  that  there  stock  'r 
whether  I  wun't.  Come  to  think  of  it,  I  need  th' 
money  for  other  things." 

Jimmy  Young  opened  his  eyes.  "Well,"  he  was 
about  to  say,  "you've  just  signed  your  name  to  an 
application  for  a  hundred  shares,  'ain't  you?  It's 
ag'in'  th'  company's  rules  to  cancel  a  stock  applica 
tion."  But,  looking  at  Miss  Mabel  thoughtfully, 

125 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

he  reconsidered  this  customary  iron  response  of  the 
Great  Beaver  falcon  to  his  quarry,  and,  reconsider 
ing  it,  signaled  with  an  outward  jerk  of  his  thumb 
to  George  Hancock  to  reconsider  it  also.  George, 
who  had  also  had  the  conventional  response  on  the 
tip  of  his  tongue,  withheld  it,  in  some  disappoint 
ment,  not  unmixed  with  astonishment. 

"Well,  Mr.  Beamish,"  Jimmy  said,  cordially, 
taking  the  receipt  back  from  the  farmer,  tearing  it 
up  with  a  magnanimous  flourish,  and  handing  back 
the  five-dollar  bill  and  the  signed  stock  application, 
"I'm  not  a  man" — he  swung  his  hand  in  the  air — 
"and,  sir,  the  Great  Beaver  ain't  the  company,  to 
attempt  or  to  endeavor  to  hold  any  shareholder  in 
th'  corporation  that  don't  want  to  be  there.  Here, 
sir,  is  your  money  back.  That's  squaar  now,  ain't  it  ?" 

John  Beamish  reached  out  his  hand  with  alacrity, 
but,  having  received  back  the  bill,  folded  and  put  it 
in  his  pocket  very  slowly.  He  read  the  stock  ap 
plication  over  twice,  wrinkling  his  forehead,  pulling 
at  the  end  of  his  mustache,  and  glancing  ponderingly 
at  Jimmy  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye. 

Presently,  clearing  his  throat  vigorously,  he  said, 
"It's  good  stock,  eh,  boy?" 

"Eh?"  said  Jimmy,  smoothing  hastily  off  his  face 
the  look  he  had  prepared  for  Miss  Mabel,  who  would 
shortly  emerge  from  the  kitchen  door  with  the 
potatoes  and  greens. 

"That  there's  a  good  buy,  you  think — that  stock?" 
said  John  Beamish,  clearing  his  throat  again  noisily. 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Jimmy,  a  little  impatiently, 
"it  sure  is,  sir.  None  better  nowhere." 

126 


A  REUNION 

"Well,  then" — John  Beamish,  very  red  in  the 
face,  held  out  the  stock  application  again — "I  guess 
I'll  be  keepin'  it." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Jimmy,  sticking  the  applica 
tion  carelessly  into  the  side  pocket  of  his  coat. 
"George,  make  Mr.  Beamish  out  another  receipt 
for  his  deposit,  and  get  his  notes  f 'r  the  balance  of 
the  ten  per  cent.  Ten  per  cent,  to  be  paid  on  appli 
cation,  Mr.  Beamish." 

At  this  John  Beamish  cleared  his  throat  again, 
harder  than  ever,  pulled  his  cap  over  his  eyes, 
and  stared  redly  at  the  floor  beneath  the  peak 
of  it. 

"I'll  not,"  he  said,  huskily— "I'll  not  make  no 
deposit — not  jus*  now.  And  I  never  put  my  name 
to  a  note." 

Jimmy  did  not  answer.  He  had  just  handed  Miss 
Mabel  a  spoon  she  had  dropped,  and  had  managed 
to  touch  her  hand  in  the  act. 

George  Hancock,  at  the  farmer's  last  remark, 
looked  inquiringly  at  Jimmy  Young.  Then  he 
grinned — a  long,  slow  grin — and  jammed  the  book 
of  receipt  blanks,  and  after  it  the  pad  of  note  forms, 
into  his  coat  pocket. 

"Where  are  you  going,  mah?"  Miss  Mabel,  in 
the  kitchen,  inquired,  as  her  mother  put  on  an  old 
felt  hat  of  the  farmer's. 

"I  must  go  an'  feed  them  settin'  hens,  before  din 
ner,"  said  Mother  Beamish.  "I  should  Ve  done  it 
long  ago,  but  I  b'en  that  busy,  with  the  bread  an* 
everything — " 

Miss  Mabel  took  the  felt  hat  from  her  mother's 

127 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

head,  turned  up  the  side  of  the  brim,  and  put  it  on 
her  own  curly  crown. 

"I'll  go  down  to  the  stable  an*  feed  the  settin' 
hens  for  you,  mah,"  she  said,  raising  her  voice  a 
little.  She  caught  her  skirt  up  daintily,  skipped 
through  the  outside  door,  and  ran  down  to  the 
path  which  led  around  the  corner  of  the  stable  to 
the  chicken-house.  Jimmy  Young  fidgeted  in  his 
chair  a  moment,  watching  her  out  of  sight;  then, 
turning  to  George  Hancock,  he  suddenly  burst  out: 

"Gr-reat  jumpin'  Jehoshaphat,  George!" 

"What's  broke  loose  now?"  inquired  Mr.  Hancock, 
a  little  startled. 

"That  liveryman  in  Oakburn  said  we  wasn't  to 
put  them  horses  in  the  same  stall.  He  said  that 
roan  would  kick  the  daylights  out  o'  the  black  one, 
if  they  was  tied  together." 

"I'd  better  go  down  an'  change  'em,  then,  hadn't 
I?"  said  George  Hancock. 

"No,"  said  Jimmy,  getting  up  quickly,  "you 
finish  your  cigar,  George.  I'm  done  mine.  I'll 
'tend  to  'em.  Guess  I'd  better  do  it  before  dinner, 
too.  Won't  take  five  minutes." 

Jimmy  plunged  for  his  hat  and,  jogging  briskly 
across  the  chip-pile  outside  the  door,  disappeared 
presently  around  the  end  of  the  red  barn.  After  he 
left  the  room  John  Beamish  moved  sluggishly  in  his 
chair,  sat  up,  leaned  forward,  and  laid  his  hand  on 
little  George  Hancock's  knee. 

"Stock's  not  much  good,  eh?"  he  said,  with  a 
crafty  expression. 

George  Hancock  leaned  over  and  put  his  mouth 

128 


A  REUNION 

close  to  the  farmer's  ear.  John  Beamish  waited, 
his  head  on  one  side,  and  on  his  face  a  smile  of  in 
tense  appreciation  of  his  own  shrewdness. 

"That  stock,"  said  George,  in  a  wet  and  tickling 
whisper  that  sent  shivers  down  the  farmer's  back, 
"is  as  good  as  the  wheat.  Now  don't  tell  nobody 
I  told  you!" 

Jimmy  Young,  separated  from  view  of  the  house 
by  the  corner  of  the  big  red  barn,  slackened  his  pace 
and  tiptoed  softly  to  the  door  of  the  structure 
through  whose  warped  boards  came  the  humming 
of  Miss  Mabel  as  she  stood  and  threw  food  from 
her  apron  to  the  four  surly  hens  in  their  slatted 
boxes. 

"Boo!"  said  Jimmy,  appearing  suddenly  in  the 
doorway. 

"0-oh!"  exclaimed  Miss  Mabel,  dropping  the  end 
of  her  apron  and  spilling  the  rest  of  the  chicken 
feed.  "Oh,  you  scared  me,  you!  .  .  .  But  you 
shouldn't  leave  the  house  like  that.  Pah  will  be 
coming  down  to  see  what  you  are  after.  He  doesn't 
know  I  know  you." 

"Sure  he  don't,"  said  Jimmy.  "That's  why  he 
won't  bother  comin'  down  here.  Anyway,  I'm  sup 
posed  to  be  lookin'  to  see  that  our  team  ain't  kickin' 
each  other  into  next  week." 

"Oh,  you  are,  eh?"  said  Miss  Mabel,  teasingly. 
"Well,  have  you  looked,  or  are  you  just  go 
ing  to?" 

"I  'ain't  looked,  and  I'm  not  going  to,"  said 
Jimmy,  coming  a  little  nearer.  "Them  two  plugs 
wouldn't  touch  each  other.  They  b'en  acquainted 

129 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

since  the  beginnin'  o'  time.  Well,  how  you  been, 
all  this  while?  I  never  knew  you  lived  out  here. 
When  are  you  comin'  to  the  city  again?" 

"Never,"  said  Miss  Mabel,  a  little  gloomily,  as 
she  made  a  pretense  of  scooping  up  some  of  the 
spilled  chicken  feed.  "Auntie's  moving  away  from 
that  place  where  I  was  visiting  her.  That  two 
weeks  is  the  only  time  I  ever  spent  away  from  this 
old  farm,  or  ever  will  spend,  I  guess — " 

"Unless,"  broke  in  Jimmy,  reaching  for  one  of  the 
hands  that  Miss  Mabel  had  tucked  beneath  her 
apron,  "unless —  What  was  it  you  told  me,  that 
day  in  the  park?" 

"Pah  will  be  down  here  d'rectly,"  said  Miss  Mabel, 
irrelevantly,  yielding  her  hand  slowly,  as  the  color 
rose  in  her  cheeks.  "Don't,  now — don't.  Aw, 
don't!" 

She  made  as  if  to  pull  her  hand  away;  but  Jimmy, 
slipping  an  arm  around  her  neck,  put  his  big  brown 
palm  beneath  her  chin,  tilted  her  head  back,  and 
kissed  her  summarily. 

"It's  all  O.  K,  then,  is  it,  Sweetness?"  he  said, 
holding  her. 

"Y-yes,"  said  the  girl,  "but  don't  tell  pah— not 
yet." 

"I  won't  tell  pah,"  said  Jimmy,  warmly. 

Jimmy  Young  and  George  Hancock  sat  pensively 
on  the  seat  of  the  livery  buggy  that  evening,  jog 
ging  toward  town. 

"George,"  said  Jimmy,  breaking  a  long  period  of 
silence,  the  only  punctuation  of  which  had  been  an 
occasional  chuckle  or  a  drumming  of  his  feet  on  the 

130 


A  REUNION 

bottom  boards  of  the  rig — "George,  this  travelin' 
business  is  hell,  ain't  it?" 

"We  got  a  hundred  shares  unloaded,  anyway, 
Jimmy,"  said  George. 

"Them  hunderd's  a  dickens  of  a  lot  o*  good," 
observed  Jimmy;  "no  cash,  no  notes.  If  I  was  to 
send  that  application  in  to  ol*  D.  L.,  I'd  get  fired, 
anyway,  even  if  I  wasn't  goin'  to  quit  the  job." 

"Quit  the  job!"  George  Hancock  caught  his 
breath  in  amazement. 

"Quit,  and  settle  down,  George,"  went  on  Jimmy. 
"It's  th'  only  way,  man.  Look  at  us!  Chasm' 
'round  all  over  the  country;  eatin'  anywhere; 
shovin'  this  stock  down  people's  throats;  no  home, 
nowheres  to  go  to.  Oh,  it's  particular  hell!  D'you 
know  what  I'm  a-goin'  to  do?" 

"What?"  inquired  George  Hancock,  swinging 
around  and  blinking  his  curiosity. 

"Take  that  job  o'  clerkin'." 

George  Hancock  gulped  and  blinked;  then,  turn 
ing,  eyed  his  companion  solicitously. 

"You  'ain't  got  a  kind  of  a  pain  anywheres  in  your 
head,  Jim,  boy,  have  you?"  he  said,  earnestly.  "You 
b'en  workin'  too  hard.  I  told  you  you  was.  You 
ought  to  come  straight  back  to  town  an'  lay  off  for 
about  a  month." 

"George,"  said  Jimmy,  solemnly — "George,  ol' 
socks,  I  ain't  bughouse,  an*  I  ain't  drunk,  an'  I 
ain't  dreamin'.  I'm  goin'  to  put  these  horses  in  the 
stable—" 

"There's  the  liveryman  at  the  door,  now,  a- watch- 
in',"  warned  George  Hancock,  as  they  rattled 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

down  the  still,  evening  street  of  Oakburn.  "Better 
pull  the  team  down  to  a  walk  for  the  rest  o'  the  way. 
They're  sweatin',  an*  he'll  be  chargin'  us  extry." 

" — I'm  a-goin'  to  put  this  team  in,"  continued 
Jimmy  Young,  "an'  go  right  up  and  see  that  man 
McLeod  about  the  clerkin'  job,  before  we  set  down 
to  supper.  He  was  talkin'  straight — at  least,  I'm 
pretty  sure  he  was.  If  I  find  he  wasn't,  I'll  push 
his  face  in  before  I  come  away,  for  makin'  a  fool 
o'  me." 

"Don't  do  anything  you  might  be  sorry  for," 
said  the  prudent  George,  thinking  of  the  size  of 
R.  McLeod. 

"I  like  this  here  neighborhood,"  continued  Jim 
my,  pensively;  "I  certainly  do.  These  simple 
country  places,  George;  it's  funny.  They  don't 
seem  to  strike  you  at  all  when  you  first  come  here. 
Then,  after  you  see  the  sun  set  out  here  a  couple 
o'  times—" 

"It's  b'en  a-rainin'  the  two  nights  we  been  here," 
objected  the  matter-of-fact  Mr.  Hancock. 

" — you  get  to  kind  o'  like  it,  George — to  kind 
o'  like  it.  .  .  ." 

Jimmy  lapsed  off  into  pensiveness  again,  his  hand 
caressing  his  chin. 

"That  break  about  the  sun,"  mused  Mr.  Han 
cock,  "give  him  away.  I  know  now!" 


ISLAY   SCHOOL 

ERNIE  BEDFORD  stood  at  the  door  of  Islay 
school-house.  He  had  come  early,  got  the 
place  unlocked  and  aired,  and  covered  the  black 
board  with  mental  gymnastics  in  the  shape  of  figures 
in  all  combinations.  He  had  taken  some  stencils 
and  colored  chalk,  and  had  put  a  little  border  of 
conventional  pattern  around  the  blackboard.  The 
band  of  transfigured  dust-motes  extending  from  the 
east  window-pane  to  a  bright  square  on  the  floor 
told  of  his  industry  in  another  direction. 

Islay  had  been  a  place  of  beginnings,  in  the  mat 
ter  of  the  work  of  its  previous  pedagogues.  One 
had  begun  a  school  library.  This  enterprise  was 
represented  by  half  a  dozen  volumes,  in  all  stages 
of  dismantling,  from  that  of  being  coverless  to  the 
further  disaster  represented  by  a  commencement  at 
page  103.  Another  teacher  had  started  a  system 
of  monthly  reports,  which  each  pupil  was  supposed 
to  take  home  at  the  end  of  the  month,  get  the 
parents'  signature,  and  return  to  the  teacher  next 
morning.  But  this  had  evidently  been  abandoned, 
the  trouble  seeming  to  lie  (judging  from  a  parental 
10  133 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

comment  scratchily  inked  at  the  bottom  of  one  re 
port  form)  in  the  fact  that  Lizzie  Whiteman  had 
been  given  more  marks  than  our  Jennie,  and  the 
last  teacher  thought  Jennie  was  the  smartest  girl  in 
the  class.  Yet  another  teacher  had  started  to  or 
ganize  a  tennis  club  (this,  Ernie  thought,  might 
possibly  have  been  his  immediate  predecessor,  as  a 
movement  in  the  direction  of  tennis  was  obviously 
intended  to  curry  favor  with  the  "big  girls"  of  the 
school) ;  but  the  only  thing  that  seemed  to  have 
been  bought  was  the  balls,  which  still  lay  immacu 
lately  in  the  drawer  of  the  preceptorial  desk. 

Ernie  turned  from  his  place  in  the  doorway  and 
looked  back  into  the  room.  One  schoolful  of  chil 
dren  is  very  like  another;  and  this  place  reminded 
him  rather  strongly  of  that  which  he  had  attended 
as  a  pupil,  not  so  very  long  ago. 

There  were  the  faded  and  polished  smoothness  of 
the  old  seats,  the  ink-stains  and  scratches  on  the 
desks.  There  was  an  old  primer  keeping  a  cracked 
slate  company  in  one  of  the  back  desks;  and  Ernie, 
picking  up  the  primer,  remembered,  as  he  looked 
at  the  front  page — not  the  page  with  "cat;  a  cat; 
the  cat,"  but  the  publishers'  preamble — remembered 
how  he  had  desired  to  skip  all  the  cat,  rat,  pen,  boy 
run  in  the  sun  business,  and  read  stuff  like  that 
cryptogram  under  the  head  of  "Preface."  He  re 
membered  further  how  a  boy  had  drawn  his  atten 
tion  away  from  the  dejecting  fact  that  there  was  no 
royal  road  to  small  print  and  big  words,  by  offering 
to  interpret  the  heading  of  the  page;  explaining 
how  the  interpreter's  big  brother,  who  knew  every- 


ISLAY  SCHOOL 

thing,  had  said  " Preface"  stood  for  "Peter  Ross 
Eats  Fish  and  Catches  Eels,"  and  that  backward  the 
reading  was  "Eels  Catches  Alligators,  Father  Eats 
Raw  Potatoes." 

Ernie  turned  back  to  the  fly-leaf  of  the  primer. 
Here  he  found,  in  lines  that  ended  on  the  right  side 
of  the  page  an  inch  lower  than  they  commenced  on 
the  left  side,  this  legend : 

When  I  am  Old  and  in  My  Grave 
And  all  My  boans  are  Rotten, 
This  Litel  Book  wil  Tell  my  naim 
Wen  I  am  Quite  forgotten, 
Steal  Not  this  book  for  Fear,  for  shame 
For  Now  you  know  the  Owners  name 
willie  whiteman. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  same  page  was  this  state 
ment  and  warning  concerning  the  sacred  rights  of 
property : 

Steal  not  this  Book  for  fear  of  Your  life 
for  the  Owner  carries  a  big  jack-knife. 

Crowded  into  one  corner,  under  the  last,  was  this 
coaxing  couplet: 

If  my  girl's  name  you  wish  to  find, 
turn  to  page  forty-nine. 

But  Ernie  smiled  sapiently.  He  had  been  duped 
in  that  way  a  number  of  years  before.  He  knew 
he  should  find  on  page  forty-nine, 

If  you  further  want  to  look, 
Just  turn  to  the  back  of  the  book, 
135 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

and  that  at  the  back  of  the  book  he  would  find 
a  rude  drawing  of  a  profile  with  the  thumb  pressed 
against  the  point  of  the  nose  and  the  four  fingers 
extended  derisively. 

There  was  a  rustling  on  the  path  that  led  up 
through  the  bushes;  and  Ernie,  looking,  saw  a  tall, 
freckle-face  boy,  his  trousers  ending  at  his  mid-calf, 
come  sidling  into  view.  He  had  been  standing  be 
hind  a  tree,  studying  the  new  teacher  and  waiting 
for  the  next  boy. 

But,  now  that  the  new  teacher  had  caught  sight 
of  him,  he  came  out  from  behind  the  tree  and  edged 
slowly  up  to  the  school-house  door,  going  sidewise 
like  a  crab. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Ernie,  reassuringly. 

Islay  people  were  folk  of  few  words;  and  the  boy 
merely  smiled  sheepishly,  and  stood,  moving  his  toe 
on  the  gravel. 

"I  suppose  you  want  your  old  desk  again,  that 
you  had  last  term?"  said  Ernie,  intuitively. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  boy. 

"What's  your  name?"  inquired  Ernie,  sitting  down 
unconventionally  upon  the  step. 

"Art  Morgan,"  the  boy  answered,  as  he  squatted 
on  the  banking,  dangling  his  books,  which  were  held 
together  by  a  harness-strap. 

"Live  far  from  here?"  Ernie  inquired,  chewing  the 
end  of  a  grass-stalk. 

"Three  mile,"  said  Master  Morgan. 

"Well,"  said  Ernie,  "you're  good  and  early.  I 
like  to  see  a  boy  come  early,  'specially  when  he  has 
a  long  piece  to  come.  Do  you  like  school?" 

136 


ISLAY  SCHOOL 

"Oh,  it  ain't  bad,"  said  Art  Morgan,  "when  they 
don't  save  all  the  chores  for  me  to  do  after  I  get 
home  nights." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
Master  Morgan,  looking  up  with  a  grin,  said: 

"I  never  learned  much  fr'm  the  last  teacher. 
They  fired  him." 

"A  boy,"  said  Ernie,  severely,  "that  wants  to 
learn  will  learn.  Understand  that,  my  boy." 

Two  little  white  frocks  appeared,  far  down  the 
glade. 

"Here's  Stewartses  a-comin',"  said  Art.  "OF 
Bill  Stewart — Tombstone  Bill,  they  call  him — 
thinks  them  two  kids  has  got  to  have  the  best  of 
everything.  They  had  a  special  school-meetin'  last 
term  b' cause  Liz  Stewart  didn't  get  the  desk  near 
the  stove,  for  the  cold  weather." 

"What  subject  do  you  like  studying?"  inquired 
Ernie,  to  stem  the  tide  of  district  gossip. 

' '  What  subjic'  ?"  Art  Morgan  considered,  weight 
ily.  "Well,  I  dunno.  One  of  'em's  about  as  bad 
as  another.  I  hate  jogrefey  like  the  devil." 

"Like  arithmetic?"  inquired  Ernie. 

"Oh,  it  ain't  too  bad,"  said  Master  Morgan, 
"when  I'm  give  sums  that's  easy  did." 

The  Misses  Stewart,  who  looked  to  be  about  the 
ages  of  eight  and  ten,  drew  near.  They  had  been 
looking  hard  at  the  new  teacher  as  they  came  up 
the  trail;  but  as  they  crossed  the  dusty  space  in 
front  of  the  school  door  Miss  Lizzie  set  her  eyes 
primly  before  her,  shook  Maudie  into  decorousness, 
too,  and  swept  past  the  teacher  into  the  school- 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 


house.  There,  with  much  fuss  and  periods  of  gos 
sipy  little  whisperings,  they  chose  out  a  seat,  packed 
their  books  into  it,  and,  sweeping  out  again  past 
the  teacher  without  speaking,  went  off  to  pick  some 
flowers  to  put  in  the  empty  ink-bottle  on  their  desk. 

"Here's  Roscoe,"  said  Art  Morgan,  beaming. 
"Hello,  Ros!" 

"Hello  yourself  an'  see  how  you  like  it!"  said 
a  red-faced  boy,  looking  at  the  teacher  with  a  kind 
of  humorous  sheepishness  as  he  came  up  the  path, 
twinkling-eyed.  As  he  passed  Art  Morgan  he 
grabbed  him  by  the  bare  toes  and  hauled  him  along, 
sitting,  for  about  three  feet;  then  let  him  go  and 
capered  past  the  teacher  into  the  school-house. 

"Ros  don't  learn  anything,"  said  Art  Morgan  to 
the  teacher,  as  he  grinningly  picked  himself  up  and 
returned  to  his  place  on  the  banking.  "He's  here 
for  divilment." 

"Look!  Yon's  Dave  Martin  a-comin'  up  the 
trail.  See?"  Art  observed  again,  presently  (he  had 
constituted  himself,  after  his  usual  fashion,  official 
announcer  of  the  gathering).  "He's  the  stur-rn* 
kid!  He  don't  take  no  back-talk  from  nobody — 
Dave  don't." 

Ernie  Bedford's  blood  stirred  somewhat  as  he 
glanced  toward  the  road,  along  which  Morton's  son 
swung  at  a  springy  stride,  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

"Hey,  Dave!  Back  to  school  again,"  Art  Mor 
gan  essayed,  sociably,  as  the  big  boy  came  within 
earshot. 

Dave  Morton  did  not  even  glance  at  the  speaker. 
His  eyes  were  on  the  teacher.  Ernie,  with  a  pleas- 

138 


ISLAY  SCHOOL 

ant,  unwavering  steadiness,  returned  the  look, 
nodding  a  silent  and  armed  "good  morning"  as 
young  Morton,  passing  him  without  a  word,  entered 
the  school-house. 

There  was  a  rustle  behind  Ernie.  Art  Morgan, 
grinning  from  ear  to  ear,  looked  over  the  teacher's 
shoulder.  Ernie  half-involuntarily  turned,  and  was 
just  in  time  to  catch  on  the  face  of  Roscoe  Boyd, 
Islay's  humorist,  the  most  comical  burlesque  pos 
sible  of  Dave's  expression.  He  smiled,  in  spite  of 
himself. 

"You  made  the  teacher  laugh,  even,"  said  Art 
Morgan.  "Show  him  what  the  last  teacher  looked 
like,  now,  Ros."  • 

But  Roscoe,  who  had  a  shrewder  sense  of  the  pro 
prieties,  edged  redly  out  of  sight.  He  reappeared, 
however,  in  a  moment,  to  cross  the  door-step  with 
a  run  and  a  jump  and  butt  into  an  immensely  fat 
boy  who  had  just  dismounted  from  a  buggy  that 
had  then  driven  away. 

"Egh!"  said  the  fat  boy,  staggering  a  little. 
"L'out  what  you're  doo-in'  there,  Boyd!  Don't 
get  smart." 

"Yon's  Fat  Waghorn,"  said  Art.  "He's  that  fat 
he's  got  to  be  brung  to  school  in  the  buggy." 

Alfie  Waghorn,  stepping  slowly  and  staringly,  his 
eyes  fastened  so  intently  upon  the  teacher  that  he 
stumbled  ponderously  at  all  the  unevennesses  in  the 
path,  came  to  within  ten  feet  of  the  door-step  and 
stopped,  twisting  his  hands. 

"The  teacher  ain't  cross,"  said  Art  Morgan. 
"Come  on." 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

11  He  wun't  bite  you,  Waggie,"  said  Roscoe,  over 
the  fat  boy's  shoulder.  "Teacher,  this  here  took 
the  first  prize  at  the  fat-stock  show  in  Oakburn  last 
fall.  He  weighs  more  'n  his  dad.  an'  his  dad's 
thirty-five  years  older  'n  him." 

Attention  was  diverted  at  this  moment  by  some 
thing  that  the  teacher  could  not  see,  although  he 
could  hear  the  sound  of  hoof -beats  on  the  trail  be 
yond  the  bushes.  The  boys,  including  even  the 
friendly  and  talkative  Art  Morgan,  charged  in  a 
racing  pack  across  the  baseball-ground.  Roscoe 
won  to  the  front  and  plunged  into  the  thicket  with 
a  whoop,  returning  presently,  even  before  the  others 
had  reached  the  bushes,  with  a  bridle-rein  in  his 
hand,  at  the  end  of  which  trotted  a  plump  little 
pony.  Astride  of  the  pony  was  a  girl,  a  hat  with 
flowers  around  the  crown  hanging  carelessly  at  the 
back  of  her  neck.  Her  hair  was  tumbled  by  the 
wind  into  brown  curls  that  framed  a  small,  vivacious 
face  in  which  two  bright  eyes  that  matched  her  hair 
in  color  danced  and  twinkled.  Her  waist,  of  some 
black  stuff  dotted  with  white,  was  cut  low,  showing 
a  round  little  neck,  poised  coquettishly  and  sup 
porting  daintily  the  small  head,  with  its  egg-tip  of 
chin  that  drew  down  into  a  little  dimpled  point 
when  she  smiled. 

The  boys  had  all  formed  themselves  into  an 
escort.  Roscoe  defended  the  bridle-rein,  with  hu 
morous  little  pushes,  from  all  comers.  Dave  Morton, 
scowling  about  him  challengingly,  had  taken  his 
place  next  the  saddle,  from  which  it  was  his  fashion 
to  lift  Carrie  Leslie  down — a  proceeding  which  that 

140 


ISLAY  SCHOOL 

active  little  damsel  resented,  but  to  which  she  sub 
mitted  because  she  did  not  want  to  "get  Dave 
mad."  Art  Morgan  had  commenced  to  unbuckle 
the  saddle-girth. 

"Here  she  is,"  said  Roscoe,  as  the  group  drew 
near  to  where  the  teacher  sat,  "the  best  little  ball 
player  in  Islay.  Carrie,  the  new  teacher's  promised 
us  a  lickin'  all  round.  'Ain't  you,  Teacher?" 

Dave  Morton,  pressing  jealously  close,  lifted  her 
to  the  ground;  Art  Morgan,  had  the  saddle  off  and 
in  the  school  lobby  in  a  few  seconds;  and  Roscoe 
led  the  pony  off  to  the  shed.  Alfie  Waghorn,  who 
had  been  sadly  behind  in  the  first  race,  had  made 
up  by  diving  behind  the  door  in  the  lobby  and 
securing  the  smooth  and  much-handled  baseball  bat 
of  last  term,  which  he  held  out,  with  a  heavy  grin,  to 
Carrie.  She  took  it  and  swung  it  around  her  head. 

"Come  on,  boys!  I  pick  Roscoe  for  the  other 
captain!" 

Roscoe  came  runnin  from  the  shed,  caught  the 
bat,  hand-measured  it  with  Carrie  three  times,  in 
competition  for  first  choice  of  men.  Roscoe  won. 
He  looked  longingly  at  Dave  Morton;  but  Dave 
frowned  and  held  up  a  doubled  fist  at  him.  Sud 
denly  Roscoe  looked  toward  the  trail,  and  came  to 
a  triumphant  decision  with: 

"Here's  Wes  Russell.  I  chose  Wesley.  Come 
on,  Wes.  You're  on  my  side.  We're  goin'  to  get 
licked,  but  we  ain't  goin'  to  get  whitewashed,  Wes." 

Wesley  was  the  Adonis  of  Islay — a  trim-built  boy, 
with  a  Byronic  head  and  curly  hair;  good-looking 
without  girlishness. 

141     • 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

"Wes  is  a  dam'  good-lookin*  kid,  but  he  ain't  no 
sissy,"  even  his  rivals  said.  He  sauntered  up,  look 
ing  around  him  with  a  pleasant  indifference,  and 
took  his  place  beside  Roscoe.  Miss  Carrie  had  al 
ready  chosen  Dave  Morton;  and  the  selection  of 
sides  ended  up  with  Alfie  Waghorn,  whom  Roscoe, 
choosing,  gripped  by  the  shoulder,  waving  his  cap 
around  his  head. 

"Hooray!"  he  shouted,  as  he  led  the  fat  boy  away. 
"I  got  th'  best  man  in  the  bunch." 

The  only  ones  not  chosen  were  the  Misses  Stewart, 
who  preferred  to  stand  primly  apart,  hand  in  hand, 
and  watch  the  game.  Just  before  commencing  Miss 
Carrie  had  a  bright  idea. 

' ' Aha !"  she  said.  "I'm  going  to  make  sure  of  this 
game,  boys.  Teacher!  I  choose  teacher!" 

But  Ernie  diplomatically  shook  his  head.  "I'll 
be  referee,"  he  said,  getting  up  from  the  step  and 
coming  down  to  the  center  of  the  diamond. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Carrie,  glancing  around,  "I 
choose  Annie  Russell."  Wesley's  sister,  who  was 
almost  as  plump  as  Alfie  Waghorn,  had  just  arrived. 

The  game  commenced,  Roscoe  pitching  and  Carrie 
at  the  bat.  Roscoe 's  ostentatious  twirl  was  deftly 
stopped  and  shot  from  the  end  of  Miss  Carrie's 
bat  over  the  fence,  away  into  the  border  of  a  wheat- 
field  beyond. 

Rey  Ferrier,  a  stout  six-year-old  with  a  big  head — 
"an*  no  thin'  in  it,"  Roscoe  said — arrived  and  flung 
down  his  book-bag  in  time  to  race  into  the  wheat 
after  the  ball. 

"We  got  to  quit  a-fieldin'  in  Charlie  Tinker's 
142 


ISLAY  SCHOOL 

wheat,"  said  the  prudent  Art  Morgan,  to  the  teacher. 
"Yon's  Charlie's  shanty — an',  by  hokey!  I  believe 
that's  him  a-comin'  over  here  now!  Charlie  he 
just  lays  in  wait  for  an  excuse  to  raise  a  rumpus.  I 
bet  he's  b'en  a-settin'  by  the  knot-hole  in  his  stable 
door,  waitin'  for  that  ball  to  go  into  his  wheat-field.*' 

"Ya,  that's  Charlie  comin'  acrost,"  corroborated 
Roscoe,  grinning  and  turning  a  somersault. 

Charlie  Tinker  was  a  bachelor,  with  a  bald  head 
which,  when  it  was  hidden  under  the  old  felt  hat  he 
wore  at  work,  at  meal-times,  and  sometimes  in  bed, 
made  him  look  only  ten,  instead  of  twenty  years 
older  than  he  really  was.  He  was  supernaturally 
thin,  wholly  un whiskered  except  for  a  tuft  of  green 
ish-yellow  hair  at  each  end  of  his  upper  lip,  brown 
and  wrinkled  as  a  baked  potato,  and  with  a  voice 
like  a  hay-fork  drawn  along  the  corral  fence. 

He  started  quarreling  before  he  was  within  ear 
shot,  flinging  out  his  arm  toward  the  abused  wheat- 
field  like  a  conjuror  catching  quarter-dollars  in  the 
air,  jibbering  and  nodding,  tripping  over  gopher- 
holes,  occasionally  nodding  his  hat  off,  tramping 
upon  it  and  past  it,  and  turning  back  to  pick  it  up, 
without  ceasing  his  flow  of  language. 

The  only  movement  in  the  group  watching  these 
phenomena  was  made  by  Roscoe,  who,  his  eyes 
popping,  ran  over  and,  with  an  immense  display  of 
trepidation,  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  shed. 

"It  ain't  so  much  the  grain  I  mind,"  Charlie 
Tinker's  voice  came,  growing  more  audible  as  he 
advanced — "it  ain't  so  much  the  grain  I  mind,  as 
the  principle  of  the  thing.  They  could  just  as  easy 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

bat  th'  balls  the  other  way  and  field  'em  in  Bill 
Stewart's  grain,  as  they  could  in  mine.  I'm  goin' 
to  have  a  trust ee-meetin',  I  am,  I  yam.  I  don't 
care  what  comes  ner  goes — I  don't  care  if  they  have 
to  move  the  school.  This  thing  can't  go  on.  Th' 
line  has  got  to  be  drawed  somewheres.  ..." 

''He's  a  son  of  a  moose  to  talk,"  said  Art  Morgan, 
sotto  voce,  as  Charlie  Tinker  turned  in  at  the  school 
yard  gate.  "He  wun't  let  you  slip  in  a  word  till 
he's  through;  an'  when  he's  through  he'll  ast  you 
for  the  full  of  a  pipe  o'  tobacco,  an'  go." 

Ernie  Bedford  motioned  Art  into  silence,  and 
stepped  forward. 

"Good  morning!"  he  said. 

"Good  morning,  hell!"  said  Charlie  Tinker,  stop 
ping  before  the  teacher  with  his  eyes  shut  and  one 
hand  intermittently  swinging  above  his  head,  shak 
ing  there  a  moment,  and  then  descending  with  a 
smack  into  his  other  palm.  ' '  I  ain 't  here  to  exchange 
no  flatteries.  I'm  here  stric'ly  on  business.  I  don't 
care,  I  won't  stand  it;  I  don't  have  to,  an'  that 
settles  it,  if  I  have  to  build  a  cast-iron  wall  about 
my  premises  fifteen  feet  high.  It  ain't  the  grain 
they  squash  down;  it  ain't  the  frenchweed  they 
carry  into  my  field  between  their  everlastin'  young 
toes;  it  ain't  the  fact — •"  Charlie  Tinker  drew  out 
an  immense  watch  with  dramatic  suddenness.  ' ' That 
school  should  'a'  b'en  in  fifteen  minutes  ago — " 

"Your  time's  fast,"  said  Ernie  Bedford.  "Now 
see  here — " 

"See  here,  no  thin'."  Charlie  Tinker  jammed  his 
watch  into  his  pocket,  closed  his  eyes  again,  tilted 

144 


ISLAY  SCHOOL 

his  head  back,  and  swung,  his  arm  again  to  its  ex 
pository  position  above  his  head.  "I'm  doin'  the 
talkin',  I  hev  the  floor,  I'm  goin'  to  say  what  I  came 
to  say,  an*  that's  this:  By  the  hoaly  Mackinaw!  I 
ain't  a-goin'  to  put  up  with  it,  d'ye  hear?  It's  the 
principle  of  the  thing,  it  ain't  nothin'  else.  They 
can  chase  my  calves  into  the  mud,  where  they  slip 
an'  get  their  ankles  sprain t ;  they  can  tease  my  stud 
horse  till  he  smashes  the  pastur'  gate  to  get  to  'em 
(I  hope  he  gets  aholt  of  one  of  'em;  they'll  let  him 
alone  then) ;  they  can  soak  my  hens  with  chunks  o' 
sod  an'  rocks  till  they  have  to  hide  away  back  in  the 
brush  to  get  their  eggs  laid — they  can  do  any  mortal 
thing  they  please,  if  they'll  only  take  a  half  a  day 
off  an'  torment  some  one  else  for  a  change.  It's  the 
principle  of  the  thing  I  mind.  There's  my  broncos 
gettin'  uneasy.  I  got  to  be  get  tin'  back  an'  finish 
that  corner  o'  plowin'  before  noon.  How  long  was 
you  teachin'  before  you  come  to  Islay  ?  Never  mind, 
you  can  tell  me  ag'in.  Have  you  any  smokin'- 
tobacco  on  you?  Don't  fetch  it  to  school,  eh? 
Well,  that's  too  bad.  This  is  a  fine  piece  o'  country 
'round  here.  Come  over  some  night  and  I'll  show 
you  the  biggest  potato  you  ever  seen  in  all  your 
born  days.  So  long!" 

The    air    seemed    very    still    as    Charlie    Tinker 
teetered  out  again  through  the  gate. 

"Is  it  safe  to  come  down  now?"  yelled  Roscoe, 
from  the  shed  roof. 

"Quite  safe,  young  man,"  said  Ernie  Bedford, 
"and  it's  time  school  was  in.  One  of  you  boys  ring 
the  bell." 

MS 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Art  Morgan  and  Roscoe  Boyd  raced  for  the  school- 
house  door  neck  and  neck.  Roscoe  arrived  first, 
plunged  inside,  and  presently  emerged  with  the  bell, 
which  he  rang  from  the  door-step  with  extraordinary 
vigor,  jumping  up  and  down,  jigging  from  side  to 
side,  and  at  intervals  going  through  the  motions 
of  a  big-league  pitcher  winding  up  for  a  throw. 

" That's  enough,"  said  Ernie,  smiling  at  the  boy 
as  he  reached  the  door.  "Give  me  the  bell  now,  and 
come  in." 

Roscoe,  with  one  final  vigorous  shake  of  the  instru 
ment,  relinquished  it,  tossed  his  hat  over  a  hook, 
and,  with  a  run  and  a  slide,  slumped  down  into  his 
seat.  The  other  boys  entered  in  much  the  same 
way — pummeling,  shouting,  crowding  in  through  the 
doors  higgledy-piggledy.  Even  the  girls  chattered 
fearlessly,  tagging  one  another  amid  squeals  and 
giggling  as  they  proceeded  by  the  most  roundabout 
way  to  their  respective  desks. 

Ernie  sat  behind  the  table  at  the  front  of  the  room, 
looking  straight  before  him  without  word  or  change 
of  feature,  until  the  last  pupil  was  seated.  Then  he 
stood  up. 

"Boys  and  girls  of  Islay  school,"  he  said,  and  at 
something  in  his  tone  the  unruly  chattering  and 
laughter  was  hushed  and  a  score  of  bright,  critical 
child-eyes  turned  his  way,  "in  a  minute  or  two  we 
will  start  the  first  day's  work  of  a  new  term.  Now, 
before  we  commence,  there  is  one  thing  I  want  you 
to  get  clearly  into  your  minds  and  keep  it  there. 
We  are  here  for  work,  not  play.  Play  as  much  as 
you  like  during  recess  and  noon,  and  outside  school 

146 


ISLAY  SCHOOL 

hours,  but  in  here  there  must  be  quietness,  order,  and 
work.  Further,  you  must  never  again  come  into 
this  school-room  the  way  you  did  just  now.  Here 
after,  when  the  bell  calls  you,  you  will  first  hang 
up  your  hats  in  the  lobby,  and  then  go  back  and 
form  in  two  rows  outside  the  door — the  girls  in  the 
right-hand  row  and  the  boys  in  the  left.  The  girls 
will  then  file  in  first  and  take  their  seats;  after  them, 
the  boys,  going  straight  to  their  desks  without  noise 
or  crowding.  From  the  time  that  you  form  in  line 
the  talking  must  stop. 

"Dave  Morton,  you  said  something  just  now  to 
Wesley  Russell.  What  was  it  you  said?" 

Young  Morton  looked  up  quickly  from  a  middle 
seat,  where  he  sat  in  a  careless  attitude,  his  elbow 
on  the  desk,  his  feet  out  in  the  aisle. 

"It's  none  of  your  blamed  business,"  he  said, 
with  slow,  deliberate  insolence;  "but  I'll  tell  you, 
if  you  want  to  know.  I  said  you  must  think  you 
was  runnin'  a  regiment  or  somethin',  instead  of  a 
school." 

"You  stand  up!"  said  Ernie  Bedford,  coming 
around  to  the  end  of  the  table,  his  voice  cold,  his 
face  calm,  but  every  nerve  in  his  straight,  well-set 
up  body  tingling. 

"You  go  to  hell!"  came  promptly  from  the  desk. 
"If  you  think  you  can  make  me  stand  up,  come  on 
over  here  an'  try  it." 

Ernie  came  a  step  forward,  then  paused. 

"Now,  Dave,"  he  said,  evenly,  "I  want  you  to 
understand,  before  this  goes  any  further,  that  I  am 
not  picking  on  you  especially.  Everybody  else  in 

i47 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

the  room  was  listening  quietly  till  you  broke  in  with 
that  remark  to  Wesley.  If  this  school  is  to  be  run 
properly  I  must  have  order  and  obedience  from  every 
one  alike — you  as  well  as  the  rest.  If  you  will  apolo 
gize  for  your  language  I'll  let  the  matter  drop.  It 
seems  a  kind  of  a  pity,  doesn't  it,  that  we  must  have 
trouble  of  this  sort  on  our  opening  day?" 

"Want  to  back  down,  eh?"  The  sentence  was 
jerked  out  contemptuously.  Then  there  came  a 
great  creak  of  the  wooden  desk  as  Dave  Morton 
rose,  vaulted  right  over  it  like  a  young  panther, 
came  down  lightly  in  the  middle  of  the  vacant  space 
between  the  front  row  of  forms  and  the  teacher's 
table,  and,  straightening  and  striking  in  one  move 
ment,  drove  his  fist  into  the  schoolmaster's  face. 

The  thing  was  done  so  swiftly  that  Ernie  Bedford 
had  no  time  to  do  more  than  take  the  one  quick 
backward  step  which  relieved  the  force  of  the  blow. 
Young  Morton,  stepping  in  eagerly,  followed  it  up 
with  another. 

The  inevitable  fight  was  on.  The  other  pupils, 
glued  to  their  seats,  stared  tensely  and  whitely. 
One  of  the  little  Stewart  girls  started  to  cry. 

Ernie  Bedford,  his  mouth  bleeding  copiously,  de 
cided  at  once  that  this  case  must  be  handled  with 
fists,  not  strap,  and  came  back  with  stinging  short- 
arm  blows,  right  and  left.  There  was  little  room 
to  move,  for  he  was  back  against  the  wall  now,  the 
great  boy  pressing  him  hard  with  fists  that  had  al 
most  a  man's  power  behind  them.  Dave's  angry 
and  vigorous  start  had  given  him  an  initial  advan 
tage,  and  he  followed  it  up  by  fighting  like  a  tor- 

148 


ISLAY  SCHOOL 

nado.  Every  one  of  Ernie's  quick,  calculated,  care 
fully  measured,  jarring  jabs  (as  they  are  called  in 
ring  parlance)  which  reached  the  boy  seemed  only 
to  madden  him  and  increase  his  strength. 

The  teacher,  working  around  gradually  until  his 
back  was  away  from  the  wainscot,  stepped  back  sud 
denly,  with  the  idea  of  getting  room  to  fight  with 
longer  swings  and  to  bring  a  little  boxing  science 
into  play.  But  in  taking  this  backward  step  he  set 
his  heel  on  the  blackboard  brush,  which  had  fallen 
from  its  ledge  to  the  floor.  He  slipped,  caught  vain 
ly  at  the  window-sill,  and  fell.  There  were  no  rules 
to  this  combat;  and  Dave,  who  had  felt  the  force 
behind  Ernie's  short-arm  jabs  and  was  beginning 
to  realize  that  being  a  teacher  evidently  did  not 
necessarily  imply  that  a  man  could  not  fight,  prompt 
ly  followed  up  this  advantage  chance  had  given  him 
by  dashing  in  and  kicking  Ernie  in  the  face  (kicking 
is  ' ' allowed  "  in  a  rough-and-tumble !) .  Then,  throw 
ing  himself  on  the  teacher  as  he  lay  half-stunned  by 
the  kick,  the  youth  pinned  him  down  with  one  hun 
dred  and  sixty  pounds  of  springy,  cat-like  weight — 
roughing  him,  pummeling  him,  banging  his  head 
against  the  floor. 

Ernie,  dizzily,  and  even  at  the  expense  of  leaving 
his  face,  which  was  now  a  red  pulp,  partially  un 
guarded,  extended  his  left  hand  on  the  floor  at  the 
point  where  his  head  was  being  impacted  against 
it  by  young  Morton,  who  had  gripped  him  by  the 
hair.  The  spread  fingers  and  palm  thus  acting  as 
a  kind  of  cushion,  Ernie,  as  his  vision  cleared,  thrust 
his  right  hand  up  and  cupped  his  antagonist's  chin, 
ii  149 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

pushing  Dave's  head  back  and  presently  causing  his 
torso  as  a  whole  to  tilt  backward. 

Young  Morton  soon  shook  and  tore  the  levering 
arm  away;  but  to  do  this  he  had  to  cease  his  pum- 
meling  for  a  moment  and  let  go  of  the  teacher's 
hair.  Ernie,  in  the  interval,  pulled  himself  up  on 
his  elbow.  From  this  position,  with  a  quick  side- 
wise  twist,  he  slid  Dave,  who  had  been  astride  him, 
into  a  sitting  position  on  the  floor.  In  a  moment 
both  were  again  on  their  feet. 

The  teacher's  face,  under  its  blood-marks,  was 
now  pale  and  resolute.  A  swelling,  puffed  and  red, 
marked  where  the  kick  had  landed,  just  beneath  the 
eye. 

Dave  was  only  slightly  marked,  and,  even  after 
all  his  exertion,  breathed  lightly  and  shifted  his 
weight  from  foot  to  foot  with  unabated  dancing 
ease  as  he  rocked  forward,  guard  up  and  eyes  alert. 

No  one  of  the  pupils  who,  with  faces  white  and 
breathing  half -suspended,  watched  the  matter  to  its 
swift  conclusion  could  tell  quite  what  happened 
after  that. 

"It  was  just  as  if  the  teacher  had  b'en  holdin' 
in  up  to  them  an'  had  suddenly  let  himself  out  of 
his  cage,  like,"  said  Art  Morgan,  telling  the  hired 
man  at  home  about  the  fight  that  evening.  "Wes 
Russell  had  just  whispered  over  to  me,  'Gosh,  Art, 
I  bet  Dave  trims  him!'  when  I  seen  the  teacher's 
fist  come  out  like  a  white  streak.  I  didn't  see  where 
it  hit;  but  I  saw  Dave  step  back,  shake  his  head 
kind  of  savage,  and  then  tear  into  the  teacher  again, 
seemingly  harder  than  ever.  The  teacher  stood  right 

150 


ISLAY  SCHOOL 

up  to  him,  however,  and  for  a  minute  fists  was  flyin' 
in  all  directions,  kind  of.  Not  a  word  out  of  either 
of  'em.  Swat!  Thump!  Crack!  Grunt!  was  all 
you  could  hear — the  grunts  mostly  from  Dave,  who 
seemed  to  be  gettin'  pasted  quite  a  bit  more  than  he 
had  at  the  start-off.  Then  Fat  Waghorn,  who'd  b'en 
shakin'  like  a  jelly  all  through  the  rumpus,  fell  out 
of  his  seat  like  a  sack  o'  flour,  and  I  turned  for  a 
minute  to  look  at  him.  Just  then  there  come  an 
other  bump  from  the  front  of  the  room,  and  I  jerked 
my  head  around  ag'in.  By  Mackinaw,  it  was  Dave ! 
The  teacher  had  trimmed  him,  after  all. 

*  *  Most  of  us  was  glad,  too.  .  We  was  all  for  Dave 
when  he  started,  because  he's  one  of  us  an'  the 
teacher  was  a  stranger;  but  after  he  kicked  the 
teacher  in  the  face  like  that  we  thought  there  was 
a  lickin'  coming  to  him,  and  we  hoped  he'd  get  it, 
good! — though  at  that  part  of  the  fight  it  looked  as 
if  he  wouldn't. 

"  After  the  mix-up  was  over,  everything  was  fine. 
The  teacher  went  out  to  the  well  to  wash  his  face 
and  straighten  up  his  clothes — and  all  them  ten 
minutes  he  was  out  you  could  'a'  heard  a  pin  drop." 


XI 

AN   EVENING   LESSON 

HERE  comes  that  teacher-gentleman  that 
mauled  your  brother  abaout  so,  miss,"  said 
Ida  Bethune,  an  English  girl  with  a  sharp  nose  and 
pale-green  smile,  whose  eyes  had  a  stage-detective 
habit — which,  however,  was  not  stagey,  but  natural, 
with  Ida — of  darting  observantly  from  corner  to 
corner  of  her  eye-sockets  while  her  head  remained 
stationary. 

This  utterance  of  Miss  Bethune's  was  made  one 
evening  a  day  or  so  after  that  eventful  first  morning 
in  Islay  school,  as  Ernie  Bedford,  pausing  occasionally 
to  stare  at  the  west,  where  the  sun  was  taking  a 
most  wasteful  bath  in  pure  gold  suds  before  going  to 
bed,  came  along  the  trail  past  the  lime-kiln. 

Clara  Morton  had  just  hung  up  one  of  the  busiest 
dish-towels  in  Islay.  The  two  girls  were  alone  in 
the  kitchen.  Mrs.  Adam  had  gone  up-stairs  to  nurse 
a  headache  got  from  doing  nothing,  and  doing  it 
hard,  all  day.  Ashton,  the  Englishman,  had  taken 
a  magazine  and  his  pipe  to  the  wheat-bin  in  the 
granary  (if  you  want  to  enjoy  solid  luxury  of  com 
fort,  spread  a  gunny  sack  on  a  little  knoll-side  of 

152 


AN  EVENING  LESSON 

shoveled-up  wheat  and  lie  down,  wriggling  your 
body  a  little  till  it  molds  the  grain-heap  to  fit  your 
figure — and  you  have  a  couch  which  cannot  be 
beaten  by  the  king's  upholsterer).  Dave  and  his 
father  were  in  the  stable,  attending  the  sick  colt, 
which  had  something  wrong  with  its  legs  and  had 
to  spend  the  days  of  its  convalescence  suspended  in 
a  "sling"  from  the  stable  ceiling. 

At  Ida's  words  Clara  Morton  made  a  little  uncon 
scious  step  toward  the  mirror  which  hung  over  the 
wash-basin — a  movement  which  Miss  Bethune  noted 
and  marked  down  in  her  mental  diary  for  future 
gossip-food  at  some  apt  place  and  time. 

"I  think  I  shall  go  strite  to  bed,"  she  remarked, 
with  a  rapid  shift  of  her  eyeballs.  ' 'I'm  a  bit  fagged 
out;  it  must  'ave  been  that  dreadful  grind  at  the 
churn  this  morning." 

With  this,  Ida,  whose  attitude  toward  work  was 
much  the  same  as  that  of  Mrs.  Morton — although  in 
Mrs.  Morton's  case  the  cause  was  merely  boredom 
and  discontent,  not  organic  disinclination — went  up 
stairs  to  the  little  bed-alcove  which  was  just  over 
the  Morton  sitting-room  and  commanded  a  fine  view 
of  the  latter  through  a  disused  stovepipe-hole  in  the 
ceiling  (an  aperture  that  every  one  but  Miss  Ida 
had  forgotten  was  there). 

Clara,  left  by  herself,  stepped  over  to  the  looking- 
glass,  smoothed  her  hair,  refastened  the  brooch  at 
her  throat,  and  stripped  off  her  apron — sober,  sen 
sible  toilet  touches,  merely  of  tidiness,  not  of  preen 
ing — and  went  to  the  door  with  her  bright  smile  as 
Ernie  came  up  the  path. 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Clara  knew  by  now  every  detail  of  the  fight  be 
tween  her  brother  and  Ernie,  which  had  been  re 
layed  to  her  by,  among  others,  Miss  Ida  Bethune — 
that  embodied  newspaper  whose  trustworthiness  as 
a  bearer  of  ill  news  was  not  to  be  excelled. 

*°E  mauled  'im  abaout  something  frightful,"  Miss 
Ida  had  said;  adding,  for  no  special  reason  except 
that,  being  herself,  she  could  not  help  it,  "just  be 
cause  'e's  your  brother,  I  s'pose." 

But  two  things  had  helped  Clara  to  a  better  read 
ing  of  the  episode.  Firstly,  she  knew  Dave;  sec 
ondly,  she  knew  Ida.  A  third  circumstance,  not 
without  its  significance,  was  that,  whereas  Dave  had 
come  home  from  school  on  the  evening  of  the  fray 
without  a  mark,  Ernie  confronted  her  now  with  one 
eye  bunged  up  and  a  cheek  like  a  baked  potato. 

Ernie  was  redly  aware  of  these  infirmities,  which 
gave  him  an  expression  not  his  own  at  all;  and  his 
good  eye  met  Clara's  scrutiny  with  considerable 
sheepishness;  so  she  terminated  her  survey  of  him 
with  a  naive  little  casting-down  of  her  eyes  and  led 
the  way  to  the  semi-dusk  of  the  sitting-room.  They 
sat  down  there;  and  in  her  best  hostess-like  manner 
Clara  inquired  after  the  teacher's  general  health 
and  mentioned  that  it  had  been  a  warm  day. 

Ernie  was  still  country  boy  enough  for  formality  in 
her  to  breed,  at  least  temporarily,  formality  in  him; 
so  he  said,  simply,  one  hand  spread  out  on  his  knee : 

1 '  I  am  fine.     How  are  you  ? ' ' 

Miss  Bethune,  looking  down  out  of  the  dark  above 
the  stovepipe-hole,  yawned. 

Ernie  crossed  his  knees,  drummed  with  his  fingers 


AN  EVENING  LESSON 

on  the  table  for  a  moment,  then,  clearing  his  throat, 
said,  a  little  jerkily  and  bluntly: 

"I  was — wondering  if  you  wouldn't  like  me  to 
come  over  here  and — and  give  you  a  lesson  or  two 
a  week,  in  the  evenings.  Not  that  I  think  you  need 
the  education,  but  I — but  I — -it  might — " 

He  stopped  somewhat  lamely,  cleared  his  throat 
again,  and  held  up  one  palm  as  a  convenient  tem 
porary  resting-place  for  his  glance. 

1  'Why,"  said  Clara,  smoothing  out  the  table 
cloth,  then  shaking  her  skirts  lower  over  her  modest 
little  ankles,  "that  would  be  fine,  if  you  wouldn't  be 
too  tired." 

"I  thought,"  pursued  Ernie,  "we  might  start  this 
evening,  if  you — if  you  have  time.  So  I  brought 
over  a  couple  of  books  and  an  old  scribbler." 

"Well,  if  you're  sure  you're  not  too  tired" — 
Clara's  glance  of  gentle  mothering  passed  over  his 
face  like  a  soothing  hand — "I  would  like  to,  very 
much.  I'm  all  through  for  to-day." 

"It's  a  go,  then."  Ernie,  his  mission  stated  and 
his  plan  to  have  a  valid  excuse  for  regular  calls  at 
the  Morton  house  accepted,  felt  himself  limbering 
up  socially.  "How  would  it  be  if  we'd  tackle  some 
thing  right  now — history  or  arithmetic,  or  anything 
you  like.  Anything  but  music;  that's  something 
I'll  have  to  learn  from  you.  Let's — let's  go  out  some 
place;  it's  pretty  warm  in  here.  How  would  the 
milk-house  do?" 

"Oh,  we'd  let  the  flies  in!"  said  Clara.  "Maybe 
we  could  go  down  to  the  granary — it's  nice  and  cool 
there." 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

"Great!"  said  Ernie,  jumping  up.     "Come  on!" 

Half-way  to  the  granary,  the  two — Ernie  with  the 
books  and  scribbler  under  his  arm,  and  the  girl 
stepping  sweetly  and  gravely  alongside — met  Ashton, 
who  had  evidently  found  his  magazine  uninteresting. 
He  was  on  his  way  up  to  the  house. 

As  he  drew  near  Ernie  he  stopped  with  an  osten 
tatious  abruptness,  regarding  the  teacher.  Ernie 
returned  the  look  rather  pugnaciously. 

"Haw!  haw!  haw-aw!"  burst  out  Ashton,  sud 
denly,  bending  over  and  slapping  his  knee.  At 
the  teacher's  offended  glance,  given  from  that  side 
of  Ernie's  face  which  was  still  capable  of  expression, 
the  other  redoubled  his  demonstrations. 

"What  you  need  is  another  bit  of  raw  beef,  my 
buck/'  he  said,  straightening  up  at  last  and  tapping 
Ernie  on  the  shoulder  with  his  rolled-up  magazine. 
"Small  wonder  our  young  lady  here  is  attracted  by 
that  countenance.  Scars  of  honor,  Miss  Clara — 
scars  of  honor,  by  Jove!" 

Still  chuckling,  and  muttering  something  about 
"beauty  and  chivalry,"  Ashton  stuck  his  pipe  in  his 
mouth  and  went  on  up  the  path. 

"I  don't  like  Englishmen  much.  Do  you?"  said 
Ernie,  as  the  two  climbed  the  awkward  threshold 
of  the  granary — built  high  for  convenient  loading 
purposes. 

"No,"  said  Clara.  Not  that  it  was  possible  for 
that  tender  and  kind  little  soul  actually  and  actively 
to  dislike  anybody;  but  because  sympathy,  in  this 
particular  case,  seemed  to  demand  the  response  she 
gave.  Still,  she  had  not  looked  at  Ashton  as  he 

156 


AN  EVENING  LESSON 

passed;  and  Ernie,  had  he  been  watching  for  it, 
might  have  caught  again  in  her  tone  that  odd  in 
flection  of  reserve  which  was  noticeable  whenever 
she  referred  to  the  Englishman. 

As  the  young  people,  the  books  between  them,  sat 
down  on  a  pile  of  grain-sacks,  Ernie,  casting  a 
beatific  glance  out  through  the  open  doorway  across 
the  still  fields  now  red  with  the  sunset,  saw  Adam 
Morton,  scoop-shovel  on  shoulder,  accompanied  by 
young  Dave,  climbing  the  slope  to  the  lime-kiln. 

"  Don't  your  father  and  Dave  ever  take  any  rest 
at  all?"  he  inquired,  contemplatively,  of  his  com 
panion,  as  he  saw  the  two  jump  down  into  the  kiln. 

"Father  has  to  take  a  load  of  lime,  early  to-mor 
row,  over  to  where  they're  putting  up  the  new  munic 
ipal  hall,"  Clara  replied,  as  she  folded  her  hands 
in  comically  sedate  preparation  for  her  introduction 
to  new  knowledge.  "Dave  will  be  away  at  school 
to-morrow,  so  they  will  have  to  get  the  sacks  ready- 
filled  to-night.  I  see  Dave's  taken  the  lantern,  so 
I  guess  they'll  be  at  it  till  long  after  dark." 

"What  about  that  lazy  big  hulk  we  just  passed 
on  his  way  to  the  house?"  inquired  Ernie,  with  some 
heat.  "Why  doesn't  he  take  a  hand,  and  give  Dave 
a  chance  to  prepare  his  to-morrow's  lessons  ?  I  gave 
the  boy  some  home  work  to  do.  He  asked  me  for 
it,  and  I  gave  it  to  him." 

"Oh,  well" — Clara's  tone  was  pleasant  and 
guarded — "you  can't  ask  a  hired  man  to  go  out 
and  do  work  like  that  after  his  regular  day's  work's 
done.  Mr.  Ashton  would  probably  refuse — and  he'd 
have  the  right  to.  Anyway,  Dave  can  get  up  early 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

in  the  morning  and  do  his  home  work — and  I  know 
he  will,  for  he  seems  to  be  taking  a  new  interest  in 
school. ' '  The  little  sister  glanced  toward  the  teacher 
with  a  queer  shyness  as  she  said  this;  but  Ernie  had 
opened  the  history  text-book  and  was  turning  the 
pages  somewhat  aimlessly. 

"I  tell  you  what  well  do,'*  he  said,  presently. 
It's  getting  too  dark  in  here  to  see  this  print  now. 
We'll  just — just  talk,  to-night.  I  can  ask  you  a  few 
questions,  and  then  we  can  tell  where  to  start  in 
when  I  come  over  again  on  Friday  evening.  Or — 
say — let's  not  talk  about  lessons  at  all,  to-night. 
I'll  come  over  right  after  supper  on  Friday,  and  we 
can  make  a  grand  start,  good  and  early." 

Clara  smiled  up.  "I  have  three  of  the  cows  to 
milk  after  supper,"  she  said;  "and  then  there's  the 
milk  to  be  put  through  the  separator,  and  the  calves 
to  feed,  and  the  milk-pails  to  wash,  and — " 

" Say!" — Ernie  swung  around — " do  you  do  all  the 
work?  What  about  that  girl  Ida — what  does  she 
do?  Sit  around  and  look  pretty?" 

"Ida  reds  up  the  kitchen.     She  can't  milk." 

"Well" — Ernie  helplessly  descended  to  absurdi 
ties — "don't  bother  milking  at  all  on  Friday,  then. 
We'll — we'll  just  put  the  cows  through  the  separator." 

There  was  joint  merriment  at  this.  The  mental 
picture  of  the  gigantic,  broken-horned,  battling 
Daisy  cow,  the  Semiramis  of  the  Morton  herd,  being 
passed,  by  foretop,  dewlap,  hinch-bones,  and  tail, 
through  the  cream-separator,  was  grotesquely  titil- 
lative  enough  to  break  down  far  more  restraint  than 
existed  between  Teacher  Ernie  Bedford  and  old- 

158 


AN  EVENING  LESSON 

fashioned  little  Clara  Morton  at  that  moment  and 
in  that  place.  The  shot  proved  the  opening  one  of 
an  hour  of  whimsicalities,  laughter,  and  increasing 
jolly  intimacy,  at  the  end  of  which  the  two  young 
people,  flushed  and  delighted  with  each  other  in  a 
way  that  was  deeper  than  friendship,  but  not  yet 
so  serious  as  love,  jumped  down  from  the  high 
granary  step  and  raced  each  other  to  the  farm-house 
door. 

There,  Ernie,  thankful  for  the  darkness  which  hid 
his  red  and  temporarily  lop-sided  visage,  managed 
to  convert  the  good-night  handshake  into  a  hand- 
squeeze  on  his  part,  and  went  off,  whistling  softly, 
down  the  trail  past  the  kiln  in  which,  working  by 
lantern-light,  Dave  and  his  big-shouldered  father 
were  filling  the  last  of  the  lime-sacks. 

Clara,  on  entering  the  house,  saw,  sitting  across 
from  each  other  at  the  round  table  in  the  lamplit 
sitting-room,  another  couple,  Mrs.  Adam,  quite 
recovered  from  her  headache,  was  listening  dreamily 
over  the  dainty  but  useless  bit  of  lacework  that  dis 
played  to  advantage  her  fine  fingers,  to  Ash  ton's 
dilation  upon  the  advantages  and  delights  of  the 
city  life  for  which,  during  more  than  a  dozen  years 
on  the  stone-ribbed  Morton  farm,  she  had  pined 
with  all  her  soul. 

Up-stairs,  as  Clara  felt  her  way  in  the  dark  toward 
her  well-earned  bed,  there  was  the  sound  of  some 
body  else  hastily  scuttling  between  sheets  in  the  room 
through  which  Clara  had  to  pass  to  reach  her  fown. 

It  was  Ida  Bethune,  the  self -constituted  social 
reporter  of  Islay. 


XII 

THE   NARROW   ESCAPE   OF   MATTHEW  RODGERS 

IT  soon  became  ancient  history  in  Oakburn  that 
R.  McLeod,  of  the  Pioneer  Store,  had  hired  a 
young  hustler  from  the  city  by  the  name  of  Jimmy 
Young. 

Mercantile  Oakburn  concerned  itself  little  with 
the  conundrum  of  this  young  stripe-trousered  exotic's 
willingness  to  immure  himself  in  a  ramshackle  town 
on  the  prairie.  All  it  knew,  or  cared  to  know,  was 
that  he  was  selling  the  goods — selling  them  like  hot 
cakes,  too. 

Now,  mercantile  Oakburn,  outside  of  R.  McLeod, 
consisted  for  all  practical  purposes  wholly  of  that 
long,  sad,  dark  old-timer  who  maintained  the  One 
Price  House,  north  of  the  railway  track — Matthew 
Rodgers.  Matthew  ordinarily  worried  very  little 
over  R.  McLeod's  flashes  in  the  pan;  and  at  first 
he  only  smiled  when  told  how  the  new  clerk  was 
making  things  hum  across  the  way. 

"  My  crackey!  you've  got  to  buy  of  'im,"  said 
John  Galley,  of  the  prosperous  sand-and-lime  busi 
ness,  coming  into  Matt's  one  day,  ostensibly  to  buy 
a  ten-cent  plug  of  tobacco,  but  really  to  voice  his 

160 


A  NARROW  ESCAPE 

British  bulldog  admiration  of  the  new  salesman's 
vigor  and  aggressiveness.  "'E'd  talk  your  bloody 
'ead  off.  You  get  in  a  lad  like  'im,  Matt,  an'  I'll 
bring  my  trade  back  'ere,  right  enough." 

Knowing,  however,  that  the  Galleys,  although  a 
large  family  and  with  considerable  household  needs, 
ordered  nearly  everything  but  thread,  shoe-laces,  and 
matches  from  the  catalogue  of  a  big  mail-order  house 
in  the  city,  Matthew  merely  reached  down  the  to 
bacco  for  his  customer  and  expressed  the  neighborly 
hope  that  his  rival's  fortunes  would  continue  on  the 
mend. 

But  a  real  jolt  came  to  Mr.  Rodgers  a  week  later, ' 
when,  coming  to  his  store  door  to  shoo  away  some 
boys  who  were  stalking  his  apple-barrel,  he  saw, 
standing  by  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  Pioneer 
Store,  the  familiar  big  double-boxed  wagon  used  to 
transport  the  hired  men's  supplies — overalls,  rough 
underwear,  socks,  chewing-tobacco,  etc. — to  the 
farm  of  John  Beamish. 

Beamish,  who  knew  the  dependability  of  Matt's 
weights  and  prices,  had  given  the  One  Price  House 
the  trade  of  his  big  farm,  ten  miles  out  of  the  village, 
for  nearly  fifteen  years. 

Matthew  returned  to  his  counter  with  a  sober 
face.  The  trade  question  was,  after  all,  beginning 
to  look  serious. 

In  order  to  escape  from  Miss  Jessie  Rodgers — 
the  "votes  for  weemen"  mania  having  grown  upon 
the  sibyl  to  such  an  alarming  extent  that  Matthew 
told  her  candidly,  on  one  occasion,  that  he  was 
afraid  any  moment  she  might  bite  him  and  give 

161 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

him  hydrophobia — the  proprietor  of  the  One  Price 
House  hurried  away  that  evening  after  tea  and  came 
down  with  his  pipe  in  his  pocket  to  the  little  office 
at  the  back  of  his  store.  There,  sitting  close  to  the 
back  window,  where  the  light  from  the  Baldwin 
boarding-house  gave  him  illumination  enough  to 
smoke  by,  without  lighting  the  little  coal-oil  office 
lamp,  he  devoted  two  hours  to  quiet  thought  over 
his  bulging  economic  problem. 

What  Matthew's  pipe — that  tried  friend  and  ad 
viser  of  more  than  thirty  years'  standing — offered 
him  in  the  shape  of  counsel,  or  what  brand  of  to 
bacco  he  used  (facts  which,  it  is  admitted,  might  be 
interesting  to  readers  in  the  same  straits)  has,  un 
fortunately,  not  been  ascertained ;  but  the  sequel  was 
that  he  went  home  that  night  half-decapitated  by 
the  grin  he  bore,  and,  clapping  his  prim  felt  hat 
heartily  on  the  head  of  the  sibyl — an  unwonted  act 
of  familiarity — boomed,  in  his  rain-barrel  voice, 
"We'll  get  'em  yet,  Jezzshie,  girl — we'll  get  'em  yet!" 

" You're  right,  we'll  get  'em  yet!"  screeched  Miss 
Jessie,  hurling  the  sock  she  was  darning  into  a  cor 
ner,  pulling  the  prim  felt  hat  over  one  eye,  and  glar 
ing  up  at  him  aggressively,  "an*  sooner  than  you 
men  seems  to  think !  But  don't  you  get  smart  about 
it!  What's  a-chewin'  you?  If  you  feel  so  good  as 
all  that,  you  better  get  out  and  buck  an  armful  o' 
wood.  The  wood-box  is  empty.  Can't  you  see  it, 
or  are  you  blind?" 

And  a  moment  later  Matthew,  a  bit  chastened, 
but  still  happy,  heard  through  the  open  window,  as 
he  picked  up  the  buck-saw,  this  fierce  soliloquy  from 

162 


A  NARROW  ESCAPE 

where  the  sibyl  sat,  the  hat  still  cocked  over  her 
ear: 

"We'll  show 'em!  We'll  show 'em!  Wait  till  the 
weemen  gets  to  wear  the  pants!" 

The  upshot  and  result  of  Matthew's  pondering 
was — and  here  this  chapter  really  begins — that, 
something  less  than  a  fortnight  later,  there  also  ap 
peared  behind  the  worn  but  tidy  counter  of  the  One 
Price  House  a  bright  and  smart  young  clerk  from  the 
city. 

This  may  at  first  blush  seem  to  reflect  discredit 
upon  Matthew's  pipe  as  an  adviser,  that  utensil 
having  apparently  suggested  nothing  more  brilliant 
than  to  flatter  R.  McLeod  by  imitation;  so  one  may 
as  well  hasten  to  add  that  this  clerk  was  not  a  second 
Jimmy  Young.  Jimmy's  high  collar,  striped  shirt, 
and  peg-top  trousers  would,  in  fact,  have  been  most 
unbecoming  as  attire  for  Matthew  Rodgers's  new 
clerk — for  the  clerk's  name  was  Miss  Laura  Hendry ! 

Miss  Hendry  was  a  success  from  the  start.  She 
was  not  wholly  unpretty,  in  spite  of  a  certain  dis 
dain  for  the  usual  feminine  methods  of  appeal;  and 
the  young  farmers,  at  whom  she  flashed  her  quick, 
sociable  brown  eyes  or  treated  to  an  attractive  view 
of  back  and  waist  as  she  whipped  down  canned 
goods  from  the  shelf  behind,  winked  at  one  another 
and  came  again,  and  yet  again;  reaching,  with  a 
rapidity  that  surprised  themselves  more  than  it  did 
Miss  Hendry,  that  stage  of  familiarity  when  they 
could  engage  her  in  heavy  repartee  while  they 
shopped.  In  these  verbal  bouts  they  were  always 
so  badly  beaten  it  left  them  giddy,  yet  they  never 

163 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

failed  to  come  back  for  more — and  to  bring  a  friend 
and  sic  him  on  and  see  him  get  beaten,  too. 

Hygienic  reasons  it  was  that  had  driven  Miss 
Hendry  away  from  the  city,  where  they  raced,  to 
Oakburn,  where  they  sauntered.  A  bit  overworked 
and  spare-appearing  when  she  first  stepped  off  the 
train,  she  improved  magically  on  the  Oakburn  air 
and  the  home  cooking  of  the  Baldwin  boarding- 
house,  and  soon  became  all  color  and  curves  and 
bouncing  energy. 

She  galvanized  Matthew's  customers;  and  soon 
she  galvanized  long,  sad  old  Matthew  himself. 

It  was  not  many  days  till  Matthew's  pipe,  which 
he  now  brought  back  every  evening  to  the  solitary 
little  store-office — having  found  out  from  that  first 
trial  how  profitable,  as  well  as  comfortable,  it  was 
to  avoid  having  his  reflections  interrupted  by  dis 
tasteful  forecasts  of  the  era  when  women  would  don 
pantaloons — it  was  not  long  till  this  little  Puck  of 
a  pipe  began  to  whisper  to  him  unheard-of  things. 

The  first  evening  that  these  unheard-of  things 
actually  crystallized  into  one  great,  big,  definite, 
revolutionary  idea,  the  latter  struck  Matthew  with 
such  dazing  force  that  he  dropped  the  pipe  from  his 
teeth  to  the  floor,  forgot  it  altogether  for  the  mo 
ment — which  no  doubt  that  traitorous  little  privy 
councilor  richly  deserved — and  paced  up  and  down 
the  darkened  store  in  the  vain  effort  to  exorcise  this 
demon  which  had  possessed  him  and  had  laid  siege 
to  the  citadel  of  his  common-sense. 

But  those  who  have  had  experience  with  this  elf 
know  that  it  is  not  so  easily  laid;  and  a  variety  of 

164 


A  NARROW  ESCAPE 

cases  have  proved  that  the  more  elderly  the  one  so 
possessed  (in  spite  of  the  extra  years  that  have 
afforded  chance  to  profit  by  observation),  the  more 
hopeless  the  attempt  at  exorcism. 

Matthew's  struggle  ended  as  all  similar  struggles 
end  (with  exceptions  so  rare  as  not  to  be  worth  men 
tioning).  Resolutely  putting  out  of  his  mind  the 
picture  of  the  inevitable  encounter  with  the  sibyl 
if  he  attempted,  or  even  thought  of  attempting,  to 
put  his  new  motion  into  effect,  he  went  back  into  the 
office  and  brought  out  of  its  dusky  corner  the  small 
square  mirror  he  had  hung  up  for  Miss  Hendry's 
convenience.  Lighting  the  little  coal-oil  lamp,  he 
studied  the  image  in  the  mirror  at  great  length  and 
with  care. 

Item,  a  dense  growth  of  black,  almost  blue-black 
whisker,  ascending  nearly  to  the  eyes.  Item,  an 
immense  tanned  nose  that  came  down  over  the 
hairy  upper  lip  like  Norway  descending  over  Den 
mark  on  the  map.  Item,  a  white  celluloid  collar 
with  the  point  of  Matthew's  Adam's-apple  leaning 
upon  it  like  a  somebody  watching  something  over  a 
fence.  Item,  a  pair  of  deeply  buried,  slate-colored 
eyes  that  appeared  to  have  been  flung  down  into 
their  watery  hollows  with  such  force  that  they  had 
struck  ineffaceable  splashes  out  over  Matt's  cheeks, 
where  these  splashes  had  later  dried  into  wrinkles. 
Item  (Matthew  removed  the  prim  felt  hat  a  mo 
ment),  a  tawny  roof -side  of  forehead,  tiled  with 
wrinkles,  surmounted  by  a  mop  of  gray-black  hair, 
combed  to  the  right,  and  beset  at  its  base  by  two 
wire-grass  fringes  of  eyebrow. 
12  165 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Matthew  returned  the  small  square  mirror  a  little 
roughly  to  its  place  on  the  nail.  What  he  had 
looked  into  it  for  was  encouragement,  not  plain- 
speaking. 

"Them  cheap  glasses  is  never  made  right,  any 
way,'*  he  observed,  striking  a  match  and  groping 
around  in  the  shadows  beyond  the  dim  edge  of  lamp 
light  for  that  consoler,  his  pipe. 

And  it  was  not  long,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  before 
that  pipe,  that  mischievous,  resourceful  little  black 
pipe,  suggested  to  Matthew  that,  just  across  the 
way,  in  a  small  place  with  a  Rule  Britannia  sign  so 
contrived  as  to  whirl  in  the  wind  for  a  salient  re 
minder  to  passers-by,  lived  a  young  necromancer 
by  the  name  of  Willie  Macintosh,  who,  with  nothing 
more  than  scissors,  a  comb,  a  razor,  his  finger-tips, 
and  certain  fragrant  compounds  in  bottles,  had  been 
known  to  work  marvels  in  competition  with  Time 
and  in  battle  with  heredity. 

The  bell  in  the  Oakburn  municipal  hall  was  ring 
ing  ten  (with  certain  ejaculatory  "dings"  interrupt 
ing  at  intervals  the  conventional  double  "ding-dong" 
— -due  to  the  town  bell-ringer,  who  had  just  returned 
from  the  Commerical,  not  being  quite  clear  whether 
he  was  pulling  a  bell-rope  or  performing  his  other 
function  of  leading  the  constable's  horse  to  water: 
"Come  on,  you  back'ard  son  of  a  sea-cook!"  he 
would  say,  as  the  big  bell,  stopped  abruptly  on  the 
half -turn,  nearly  jerked  him  off  his  feet)  as  Matthew 
crossed  the  bridge  over  the  creek  and  strode  at  his 
scissors-like  walk  up  the  hill  to  the  house. 

166 


A  NARROW  ESCAPE 

Half-way  down  the  lane  between  the  walls  of  the 
kitchen  and  milk-house  he  paused,  listening  in  some 
amazement  to  two  voices  in  conversation. 

There  was  no  reason  under  the  sun  why  one  of 
these  voices  should  not  be  sounding  in  the  Rodgers 
kitchen,  as  Matthew  was  often  accustomed  to  find 
it  sounding,  in  solitary  soliloquy  like  the  voice  of  a 
feminine  Crusoe;  but  there  were  a  good  many  rea 
sons  why  the  other  voice  should  not  be  there,  instead 
of  home  with  its  owner  in  a  bed  that —  But,  no! 
Matthew,  in  his  dream  of  domesticity  at  the  office, 
had  not  looked  so  far  ahead  as  that! 

In  his  mental  tumult  at  the  sound  of  that  clear 
second  voice,  the  listener's  hand  went  up,  with  a 
convulsive  movement,  to  his  chin;  and  there,  of 
course,  as  it  naturally  would,  encountered  that 
appalling  broom-butt  of  navy-blue  whiskers. 

Matthew,  pushing  his  fingers  through  them  in  a 
kind  of  chagrin,  resolved  on  the  instant  that  he  would 
steal  back  across  the  bridge,  rout  out  Willie  Macin 
tosh,  and  present  him  (this  shows  how  far  gone 
Matthew  Rodgers,  bachelor,  and  accused  by  her  who 
should  have  known  him  best  of  that  ultra-economical 
method  of  collecting  hides  and  tallow,  really  was!) 
with  nothing  less  than  a  crisp  five-dollar  bill  to 
exercise  his  utmost  art  that  very  night,  with  the  least 
possible  loss  of  time. 

But  something  familiar  in  the  topic  being  dealt 
with  at  that  moment  by  the  sibyl — something,  in 
fact,  about  a  future  wider  adaptation  of  a  well- 
known  masculine  garment — made  Matthew  pause. 

He  crept  as  close  to  the  window  as  he  dared,  feel- 
167 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

ing  his  way  along  the  dark  lane  with  great  caution; 
for  a  certain  speckled  favorite  cat  of  Miss  Jessie's 
was  wont  to  repose  in  a  strategic  position  within 
darting-in  distance  of  the  milk-house  door;  and  if 
he  should  blunder  on  that  cat's  tail — ! 

The  window  was  closed  tightly,  the  sibyl  having 
a  cordial  hatred  of  fresh  air  except  in  its  proper 
place  outdoors;  and  Matthew  could  not  at  first 
hear  the  conversation  very  distinctly.  Miss  Hendry 
seemed  to  be  talking,  somewhat  irrelevantly,  of 
crows — at  least  Matthew  caught  a  phrase  which 
sounded  like  "the  caws."  Then,  suddenly,  her  sub 
ject  seemed  to  grip  her,  and  her  voice  rose,  clear 
and  strong  and  eloquent  as  the  sibyl's  own! 

Matthew,  as  the  words  smote  upon  his  ear,  winced 
and  blinked.  Then  he  straightened  up,  pushed  firm 
ly  and  lovingly  to  the  very  bottom  of  his  pocket  the 
five-dollar  bill  he  had  contemplated  handing  to 
Willie  Macintosh,  and  walked  boldly  in  the  door, 
whiskers  and  all. 

"You  should  be  home  in  bed,"  he  said,  looking 
severely  and  without  emotion  at  Miss  Hendry — 
curves,  color,  and  all.  "How  do  you  expect  to  do 
your  day's  work  proper  an'  earn  your  wages,  if 
you  don't  get  no  szhleep?" 


XIII 

HIS  MONEY'S  WORTH 

JOHN  BEAMISH,  who  still  resisted  the  ebon 
witchery  of  the  automobile  (although  this  was 
becoming  more  difficult  for  him  every  day),  jogged 
along  the  trail  in  his  buggy  toward  Tom  Kerna- 
ghan's  place.  The  afternoon  was  warm,  so  he  was  in 
his  shirt-sleeves;  and  this,  as  he  leaned  his  solid, 
thick  torso  back  under  the  buggy-top,  one  hand 
clasping  the  black-enameled  uprights  and  the  other 
guiding  easily  the  pony  traveling  smartly  along  the 
central  rut  of  the  trail,  added  to  the  impression  he 
gave  of  stolid,  vigilant  thriftiness. 

His  chin  moved  slowly  and  his  big  mustache 
heaved  with  the  intermittent  shifting  of  the  tobacco 
in  his  mouth.  His  eyes  were  fixed  calculatively  on 
the  nickeled  rod  of  the  dashboard — not  that  the 
dashboard  had  anything  to  do  with  his  present  re 
flections,  but  merely  because  anything,  like  nickel- 
plating,  for  instance,  that  had  a  white-money  glitter 
to  it,  always  and  involuntarily,  even  though  uncon 
sciously,  caught  and  held  John  Beamish 's  glance. 

The  matter  which  brought  John  over  to  Mr. 
Kernaghan's  at  four- thirty  on  this  evening  of  the 

169 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

"summer-fallerin'"  season  was  the  registering  of  his 
first  "kick"  against  the  Islay  school-teacher. 

The  school  had  now  been  in  operation  about  six 
weeks  and  everybody  in  the  district  had  seemed 
well  satisfied;  but  John  Beamish  had  developed  a 
grievance.  Not  the  same  as  against  the  previous 
teacher;  for,  though  Miss  Mabel  Beamish  had  been 
attending  school  regularly  after  the  first  week  and 
had  tried  every  rivet  in  Ernie  Bedford's  pedagogic 
armor  with  little  coquetries — such  as  suddenly  de 
veloped  fits  of  smiling  pensiveness,  wanderings  into 
the  school-room  at  recess  or  noon  to  ask  unimpor 
tant  questions  of  the  teacher  sitting  there  alone  at 
his  books,  or  little  "accidental"  touchings  of  the 
side  of  his  hand  with  the  side  of  hers  as  he  turned 
the  pages  of  her  exercise-book  at  her  desk — there 
had  never  been  any  deviation  on  Ernie's  part  from- 
a  strictly  professional  attitude.  He  did  not,  in 
fact,  seem  even  to  be  aware  that  he  was  being 
flirted  with.  (You  and  I,  reader,  know  at  least  one 
reason  why.) 

No,  John  Beamish  was  not  afraid  the  present  Islay 
school-teacher  was  going  to  try  to  marry  his  girl. 

Mr.  Kernaghan  looked  up  from  the  stubble-plow 
upon  which  he  was  bolting  a  newly  sharpened  share, 
as  his  neighbor  drove  into  the  yard. 

"'Day,  Jack!"  he  said,  throwing  aside  his  mon 
key-wrench  for  the  time  being,  as  it  slipped  off  a  re 
fractory  nut.  "Great  growin'  weather,  this,  hey?" 

"Middlin'— middlin'  fine,"  said  Beamish.  "A 
little  more  rain  wouldn't  hurt  none,  Tom." 

"Ye  didn't  hear  the  latest,  did  ye?"  said  Mr.  Ker- 
170 


HIS  MONEY'S  WORTH 

naghan,  coming  over,  leaning  on  the  tire  of  the  buggy- 
wheel,  and  looking  up  with  a  twinkling  expression 
in  his  weather-wrinkled  slits  of  eyes. 

John  Beamish  turned  his  feet  out  of  the  buggy- 
box,  resting  them  on  the  iron  step  to  stretch  his  legs 
a  bit.  "I  didn't  hear  nothin',"  he  said,  munching. 
"Is  it  about  the  school  here?" 

4 'Worse  'n  that,  Jack."  Mr.  Kernaghan  looked 
aside  in  a  melancholy  way.  "No,  it  ain't  nothin' 
to  do  with  the  school.  We  wouldn't  worry  much 
about  it,  if  that  was  all — would  we,  Jack?  No;  I'll 
tell  y'  what  it  is.  They're  thinkin'  of  reducin'  the 
value  o'  currency  so  a  dollar  will  be  only  worth 
ninety  cents." 

John  Beamish  looked  at  the  speaker  quickly; 
then — for  he  was  used  to  Mr.  Kernaghan — leaned 
back  and  answered,  with  great  equanimity:  "Well, 
the  most  of  us  can  put  up  with  that,  all  right — eh, 
Tom?  We  won't  grumble  as  long  as  it's  for  the 
country's  good,  will  we?  But  now  I'll  tell  you  what 
brought  me  over,  right  away,  without  no  more 
palaverin',  for  I  'ain't  got  much  time.  I  got  to 
hus'le  back  an'  see  to  them  men." 

Mr.  Kernaghan  squared  his  elbows  on  the  tire 
and  looked  up  attentively. 

"Well,  go  ahead,  Jack,"  he  said.  "So  long  as 
you  ain't  goin'  to  pay  off  the  mortgage  on  my  place 
for  me,  I  don't  mind.  Anythin'  but  that.  I've 
had  that  mortgage  so  long  I'd  be  lonely  without 
it." 

"They  tell  me,"  John  Beamish  plunged  into  his 
subject,  "that  this  school-teacher  is  giving  Adam 

171 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Morton's  girl  lessons  at  home,  about  two  or  three 
evenings  a  week.  Do  you  know  if  that's  so?" 

"Sure  an*  I  believe  the  lad's  guilty,  Jack,"  Mr. 
Kernaghan  responded.  "I  ain't  acquainted  with 
all  the  facts  o'  the  case,  but  I've  seen  him  start  out 
for  Adam's  with  th'  school-books  under  his  arm. 
I  can't  deny  that  an'  be  stickin'  to  the  strict  truth." 

"Well,"  said  Beamish,  pushing  up  his  mustache 
with  his  forefinger  and  gazing  down  reflectively, 
"my  point's  just  this — it  ain't  fair  to  the  rest  o'  the 
ratepayers  in  this  district." 

"I  don't  just  see  th7  argument,"  said  Mr.  Ker 
naghan;  "it  luks  to  me  as  though  'tis  fair  enough 
to  everybody  but  the  school-teacher,  an'  if  he  wants 
to  work  overtime  for  nothin',  sure  that's  his  own 
business  entirely,  ain't  it,  Jack?" 

"It  ain't  fair,"  said  John  Beamish,  going  on  in  his 
stolid  way  as  though  he  had  not  heard  the  other, 
"to  the  rest  of  the  ratepayers  for  Adam  Morton  to 
be  able  to  keep  his  girl  home  to  do  the  work  and 
have  her  taught  there,  while  the  rest  of  us  has  to 
send  our  daughters  to  school  and  pay  hired  girls. 
My  own  expenses,  for  instance,  is  pretty  heavy  this 
year,  and  if  I  could  get  my  girl  taught  at  home  I'd 
keep  her  from  school  to  help  the  missis,  and  let  the 
hired  woman  go.  Them  foreign  weemen  is  gettin* 
too  high-priced  now,  anyway.  They  want  plagued 
near  as  much  as  a  man." 

Mr.  Kernaghan  looked  up  at  his  caller,  then  looked 
away.  His  shoulders  shook  with  an  ebullition  of 
noiseless  laughter.  Mr.  Kernaghan  always  laughed 
that  hearty,  yet  silent  way,  covering  his  face  from 

172 


HIS  MONEY'S  WORTH 

the  nose  downward  with  a  big  hand  stiffly  hirsute 
as  a  hog's  back,  and  shaking  vigorously  from  shoul 
ders  to  knees,  but  making  no  sound  except  an  oc 
casional  little  spurt  and  explosion  of  escaping  breath 
at  the  side  of  the  masking  hand. 

"Ey,  but  y're  the  close-figurin'  divil,  Jack,"  he 
said,  when  he  could  command  speech.  "'Tis  not 
you  they'll  find  fault  with  when  they  send  'round 
lookin'  for  the  spenders  an'  the  wasters — is  it,  Jack, 
lad?  But  ye'd  better  see  what  the  little  teacher- 
man  says."  (Ernie  was  not  "little,"  but  Mr.  Ker- 
naghan  used  the  word  as  an  equivalent  of  "young. ") 
""Pis  a  matter  entirely  between  you  an'  him,  this. 
The  school-board  has  no  claim  on  him  after  four 
P.M.,  as  long  as  he  don't  spend  his  spare  time  in 
drinkin'  or  divilment.  —  Ho-oy!  Schoolmaster!" 
This  hail  Mr.  Kernaghan,  making  a  megaphone  of  his 
two  big  hands,  directed  toward  Ernie,  who  came  into 
view  at  the  moment,  approaching  in  a  leisurely  way 
with  an  armful  of  text -books,  along  the  road  from 
the  school-house. 

The  young  man  turned  out  of  the  trail-rut,  giving 
pleasant  and  pensive  "good  day"  to  Beamish  as  he 
approached  the  buggy.  Ernie  had  been  sending 
little  wireless  thought-telegrams  toward  a  certain 
white  house  to  the  southward,  at  the  edge  of  an  arm 
of  scrub.  This  was  his  usual  way  of  beguiling  his 
walk  home  after  the  day's  work  was  done. 

"Here's  Neighbor  Beamish,  with  a  scheme  all  cut 
an'  dried  for  makin'  ye  ask  the  trustees  to  raise  ye 
ten  dollars  a  month,  Teacher-man,"  said  Mr.  Ker 
naghan.  "Just  y'  talk  it  over  with  him  while  I 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

go  over  an'  see  what  ails  Henry  Nicol,  bey  ant 
there." 

With  these  words,  and  a  suave  gesture  of  leave- 
taking,  Mr.  Kernaghan  stuck  his  hat  over  his  fore 
head  and  walked  off,  in  his  jaunty,  long-stepping 
manner,  toward  the  edge  of  the  north  stubble-field, 
where  Henry  Nicol  had  stopped  plowing  and  was 
scrutinizing  old  Pat's  shoulder  with  a  solicitude  that 
suggested  discovery  of  an  incipient  harness-gall. 

"Well,  young  fellow,"  said  John  Beamish,  some 
what  patronizingly,  taking  off  his  hat,  rubbing  the 
back  of  his  head,  replacing  the  hat  squarely,  and 
leaning  forward,  elbows  on  knees,  "how  do  you  like 
our  school?" 

"Oh,  pretty  well" — Ernie  rested  his  bundle  of 
books  on  the  buggy-tire  and  laid  his  arm  across 
them — "pretty  well.  Your  daughter  seems  a  bright 
girl." 

Ernie  did  not  mention  in  what  direction  Miss 
Mabel's  quality  that  he  termed  brilliance  was  chiefly 
expended. 

"She  is  that,"  said  the  farmer,  adding — not  be 
cause  he  thought  so,  but  because,  from  listening  to 
others  discussing  their  progeny  with  comparative 
strangers,  he  concluded  it  was  the  correct  and  dep 
recatory  thing  to  say  at  those  seasons  when  he 
was  using  politeness  as  one  of  the  aids  to  gain  a 
point —  "She  gets  it  from  her  ma,  I  guess,  not  from 
me."  He  paused,  looked  down  between  his  knees; 
then,  raising  his  face  again,  said,  a  little  abruptly: 
"How  does  Morton's  girl  seem  to  be  comin'  on  with 
them  lessons  you  been  giving  her  in  the  evenings?" 

174 


HIS  MONEY'S  WORTH 

Ernie,  not  yet  realizing  the  drift  of  this  inquiry, 
reddened  a  little.  The  night  classes  with  Miss 
Clara,  if  the  truth  must  be  said,  had  not  been  very 
productive  in  a  purely  book-educative  sense,  hav 
ing  nearly  all  ended  much  as  the  first  one  of  the 
series  did,  four  or  five  weeks  before.  But  indications 
were  not  lacking  that  progress  was  being  made  in 
an  education  of  another  kind,  in  which  the  educator 
was  being  taught,  as  well  as  the  educatee,  and  a 
little  faster. 

"Wh-why,  I,"  he  began,  looking  aside — "I  guess 
she's  doing  all  right.  Seems — seems  interested-like 
in  the  work." 

"Well,"  said  Beamish,  coming  to  his  point  with 
a  certain  uncouth  brevity,  "how  would  you  like  to 
teach  my  girl  at  home?" 

Ernie  let  out  a  little  breath  of  relief  as  the  sig 
nificance  of  the  farmer's  question  became  thus  simply 
apparent. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  responded,  good-humored- 
ly,  but  with  indifference.  "Don't  you  think  she's 
getting  along  fast  enough?" 

"It  ain't  that,"  said  John  Beamish,  diplomatically 
putting  the  matter  in  a  different  way  from  the  manner 
in  which  he  had  presented  it  to  Mr.  Kernaghan,  by 
adding:  "You  see,  there's  a  ter'bal  amount  o' 
housework  to  do,  with  six  men  to  cook  for  an*  that, 
and  her  ma's  just  about  run  off  her  legs.  We  could 
use  Mabel  fine  at  home  durin'  the  day,  if  you  could 
come  over  and  give  her  a  little  schoolin'  nights,  like 
you  do  for  Morton's  girl." 

Ernie  thought  of  poor,  hard-worked  Mrs.  Beam- 

i7S 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

ish  and  the  tortoise-swift  foreign  domestic  whose 
knowledge  of  English  was  almost  as  comprehensive 
as  that  of  the  historic  fiancee  of  Gilbert  Becket. 
Mary,  generally  speaking,  entered  the  plea  of  "no 
forstan'"  to  anything  in  Anglo-Saxon  but  "Ivan" 
and  "Sunday." 

"Why,  yes,"  he  said;  "I'd  be— glad  to  help  out, 
that  way,  if  I  could.  When  do  you  want  me  to 
start?"  " 

"The  sooner  the  better,"  rejoined  John  Beamish, 
in  a  business-like  way. 

"Well,"  said  Ernie,  "let  me  see — this  is  Monday. 
I  give  Miss  Morton  Wednesdays  and  Fridays.  I'll 
give  your  daughter  Tuesdays  and  Thursdays,  and 
I'll  start  to-morrow  night,  if  you  like — seven  o'clock." 

"That  will  do,  I  guess,"  said  Beamish,  rather 
slowly,  revolving  in  his  shrewd  mind  the  idea  of 
asking  for  a  third  evening  a  week,  but  finally  de 
ciding  to  postpone  that,  judicially,  till  a  little  later — 
till  "after  he  saw  how  things  went";  "we'll  be  ex- 
pectin'  you  to-morrow  night,  then." 

With  this  John  drove  home,  making  the  little 
pony  move  at  a  canter  in  his  haste  to  resume  super 
vision  of  "them  men."  Arrived  there,  he  first  di 
rected  Mrs.  Annie  Beamish,  in  the  kitchen,  with  an 
autocratic  wave  of  his  fleshy,  check-shirted  arm,  to 
"let  that  foreign  girl  go."  Then  he  went  into  the 
dining-room  and  notified  Miss  Mabel  (who  hastily, 
at  his  approach,  drew  an  envelope-box  over  the  note 
she  had  been  writing  to  Master  Jimmy  Young,  care 
of  R.  McLeod,  Oakburn)  that  next  morning,  in  lieu 
of  her  pretty  pink  school  frock,  she  would  don  a 

176 


HIS  MONEY'S  WORTH 

plain  blue  denim  house  dress.  Miss  Beamish's 
wrathful  amazement  at  this  was  but  little  abated 
by  his  intimation  that  "the  school-teacher  is  comin' 
around  after  supper  to-morrow  to  give  you  a  les 


son." 


Two  things  were  uppermost  in  Miss  Mabel's 
mind  next  evening  as,  after  a  hasty  meal,  she  went 
up-stairs  to  her  room,  sat  down  before  a  mirror  that 
always  irritated  her  by  elongating  her  face,  and 
gathered  within  easy  reach  cold-cream,  rice  powder > 
curling- tongs,  and  a  small  coal-oil  lamp  (used  to  heat 
the  tongs),  with  the  design  of  adding  fresh  perfume 
to  the  violet  for  the  scholastic  hour. 

One  of  these  things  was  the  idea  of  "having  some 
fun"  with  the  young  teacher  (Miss  Mabel  having  no 
sincere  regard  for  anybody  but,  firstly,  the  master 
ful  though  somewhat  flamboyant-mannered  Jimmy 
Young,  and,  secondly,  her  own  elusive  self).  The 
other  was  her  plan,  conceived  with  a  shrewdness  that 
suggested  she  had  not  inherited  all  her  personal  at 
tributes  from  "her  ma's  side  of  the  family,"  of  co 
quetting  so  vigorously  and  pointedly  and  openly 
with  her  tutor  that  her  father  would  be  forced  to 
abandon  his  home-instruction  scheme,  as  providing 
too  much  opportunity  for  intimacy,  and  would  be 
obliged  to  send  her  back  to  school — neither  John 
nor  Mrs.  Beamish  having  any  time  to  spare  for 
chaperoning  during  the  lesson  hour. 

So  Ernie,  appearing  in  the  Beamish  doorway 
promptly  at  seven,  with  a  formidable  fagot  of  books 
under  his  arm  and  a  cordial  professional  smile,  was 
met  by  a  young  person,  ostentatiously  gratified  at 

177 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

his  arrival,  who  danced  to  meet  him  as  though  she 
had  hardly  been  able  to  contain  her  impatience  for 
his  coming.  She  exhaled  faintly  three  different 
kinds  of  perfume  besides  the  fresh  aroma  of  her  own 
new- washed  girlish  self;  and  there  were  roses  in  her 
cheeks,  just  where  corpuscular  roses  ought  to  be 
when  you  are  excessively  delighted  to  see  some  one. 

Ernie  Bedford — who  was  only  human,  when  all's 
said,  and  a  very  young  man  to  boot,  and  not  now 
under  the  fire  of  twenty  pairs  of  sharp  young  eyes 
as  he  was  at  the  school-house — was  sensible,  as  he 
looked  at  her,  of  a  vague  feeling  that  perhaps,  after 
all,  coming  to  instruct  Miss  Beamish  was  not  going 
to  be  a  task  one  would  have  to  force  himself,  with 
gritted  teeth,  to  perform. 

"Well,  how's  Miss  Mabel  to-night?"  he  said, 
soberly,  but  with  an  appreciation  in  his  eyes  that 
made  that  damsel  figuratively  hug  herself  in  mis 
chievous  glee. 

She  did  not  answer  his  greeting  in  words,  but  put 
her  head  on  one  side,  drew  up  a  shoulder  with  a  fine 
interpretation  of  shyness  until  it  nearly  touched 
her  lowered  cheek,  and  gave  her  tutor  a  hand  that 
she  did  not  hurry  to  draw  away. 

"Shall  we  take  the  books  out  to  the  buggy-seat ?" 
she  murmured.  "There's  such  a  dandy  breeze, 
Teacher." 

"It  may  blow  all  our  thoughts  away,"  said  Ernie, 
a  little  skittishly;  "but  come  on." 

The  buggy  was  backed  into  the  machine-shed, 
the  open  front  of  which  faced  westward.  A  couple 
of  hundred  yards  away,  beyond  the  solid  Beamish 

178 


HIS  MONEY'S  WORTH 

four-wire  fence,  the  Oakburn  trail  passed  by.  To 
the  south,  the  broad,  well-tilled  fields  of  John 
Beamish  extended  for  miles;  but  northward,  a  bare 
quarter-mile,  was  Adam  Morton's  line  fence.  Adam's 
house  lay  back  to  the  northeast  of  the  Beamish 
farmstead;  and  neighbors  on  foot,  on  the  way  to 
Adam's,  generally  turned  in  at  the  Beamish  gate, 
came  through  the  stable-yard,  and  took  a  short  cut 
across  John's  horse-pasture.  There  was  no  great 
objection  to  this,  as  no  tilled  land  had  to  be  walked 
over  en  route;  and  it  saved  the  pedestrian  nearly 
half  a  mile. 

Just  across  the  road  allowance  was  the  alkali 
quarter  which  the  impecunious  George  Bethune — 
father  of  Ida  of  the  pale-green  smile — had  bought 
for  next  to  nothing.  Only  about  fifty  of  its  one 
hundred  and  sixty  acres  were  arable,  the  remainder 
being  a  bog  covered  with  stagnant  water  in  spring 
and  too  soft  to  plow  even  after  the  water  dried  off 
about  the  end  of  July. 

"Your  neighbor  across  the  way  ought  to  start  a 
wild-duck  ranch,"  said  Ernie,  casually,  glancing 
across  at  the  water-fowl  that  whirled  in  hurricane 
swarms  against  the  western  sky  or  skated  plashingly 
to  rest  on  the  big  golden-glaring  slough. 

"I  don't  like  ducks,"  said  Miss  Mabel,  with  a 
piquant  little  gesture.  "Do  you?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  hold  it  against  them  that  they're 
ducks,"  Ernie  responded,  maintaining  the  flavor 
of  the  dialogue  with  a  certain  irrepressible  relish. 
"They  can't  help  it,  can  they?" 

"Here  we  are,"  chirped  the  girl  at  his  side,  as 
179 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

they  reached  the  buggy.  "Now,  how  will  I  ever, 
ever  get  in  there?  It  shouldn't  have  such  a  high 
seat,  Teacher,  when  it  knows  people  can't  climb." 

"Buggies  are  all  built  the  same,  I  guess,"  grinned 
Ernie.  "But  I  see  two  ways  to  get  in.  I  can  either 
stand  here  and  boost  you;  or  I  can  get  in  first,  and 
pull  you.  Which  is  it  to  be?" 

"Boost  me,  Teacher,"  Miss  Beamish  breathed, 
fragrantly,  in  his  face,  as  she  laid  her  head  back  on 
her  shoulder  and  looked  up  at  him;  "that's — 
nicest." 

Ernie,  his  cheeks  warm,  put  two  muscular  young 
hands  about  her  shoulders  under  the  arms.  Miss 
Mabel  set  her  foot  on  the  iron  step. 

"Now,  then — all  ready?"  he  said. 

"No — not  ready,"  she  responded,  leaning  back. 
"Wait  till  I  get  my  foot  fixed  so  it  won't  slip.  You 
fix  it,  won't  you,  Teacher." 

Ernie  fixed  the  foot;  but  when  that  was  adjusted 
his  hands  slipped  and  back  Miss  Beamish  came,  her 
head  on  his  shoulder. 

"O-oh!"  she  breathed.  "Oh,  look  where  I  am, 
Teacher!" 

"You're  all  right.  I  won't  let  you  fall,"  said 
Ernie,  a  little  hastily.  "There  now — up  you  go." 

The  hands  did  not  miss  their  grip  this  time,  for 
Ernie  had  just  noted  that  John  Beamish,  leaning  on 
a  pitch-fork  in  the  stable-yard,  had  become  a  highly 
interested  spectator.  Miss  Mabel  had  known  for 
some  seconds  that  her  parent  was  looking. 

"Well,  we'd  better  get  to  work,"  said  Ernie, 
shortly,  as  he  climbed  up  beside  her.  He  felt  a 

180 


HIS  MONEY'S  WORTH 

little  ashamed  as  his  thoughts  took  a  sudden  excur 
sion  in  the  direction  of  a  dairy  where  a  certain 
frank  and  motherly  little  maiden,  whose  every  touch 
thrilled  him  with  a  wonderful  electricity,  was  prob 
ably  busy  at  that  moment  among  the  shining  pails 
and  the  lacteal  fragrance  of  new  cream — cream  that 
was  no  whiter  than  her  throat  where  the  modest 
blouse  sheltered  it  from  the  sun.  He  wondered 
what  Clara  Morton  would  have  thought  if  she  had 
stood  where  John  Beamish  had  a  moment  back. 
Would  she  have  understood  that  Ernie  had  been 
only  "playing,"  with  a  purely  sensuous  relish  that 
had  never  touched  within  "miles"  of  his  heart? 

"I  feel — lazy,"  said  Miss  Beamish,  in  a  half- 
whisper,  touching  his  cheek  with  her  hair  as  she 
leaned  over,  ostensibly  to  look  at  the  school-book 
Ernie  had  flipped  open.  "I  don't  want  to  learn 
lessons  to-night — not  out  of  books — Teacher.  Can't 
you  teach  me  something  without  a  book?" 

"Now,  see  here" — Ernie  faced  her  sternly — "I 
came  over  here  to-night  because  I  promised  your 
father  I'd  give  you  lessons  twice  a  week  at  home, 
so  you  wouldn't  get  behind  in  your  school  work. 
If  we  can't  stop  this  nonsense  and  get  down  to 
business,  I  may  as  well  give  it  up  and  go  back  home. 
I've  got  lots  more  profitable  ways  to  spend  the  night 
than  fooling  'round  here." 

His  companion's  response  to  this  was  to  lean  her 
elbow  on  her  knee,  cup  her  chin  in  her  palm,  and 
gaze  pensively  into  his  face. 

"What  nice  brown  eyes  you  have!"  she  said.     "I 
never  noticed  before.     I — I — " 
13  181 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Miss  Mabel  Beamish  paused  suddenly;  and  over 
her  face  there  came  such  an  abrupt  change  that 
Ernie  involuntarily  followed  her  glance,  which  had 
suddenly  been  transferred  from  his  face  to  the  direc 
tion  of  the  road  allowance. 

Beyond  the  Beamish  gate  he  saw  a  buggy  passing 
slowly  along  the  Oakburn  trail.  The  vehicle  did  not 
turn  in  at  the  gate,  but  passed  on.  Leaning  out 
from  under  the  raised  top  was  a  big,  broad-shoul 
dered  young  man,  who  continued  to  gaze  very  in 
tently  at  the  two  in  the  machine-shed  until  his 
equipage  passed  out  of  sight  behind  a  grove  at  the 
foot  of  the  Beamish  oat-field. 

"Here!"  said  Miss  Beamish,  with  extraordinary 
vigor  and  shrillness,  snatching  the  book  off  Ernie's 
knee,  holding  it  up  ostentatiously  as  long  as  the 
young  man  on  the  trail  was  in  view,  and  turning 
the  pages  with  as  much  noise  and  fluttering  as  one 
would  make  unrolling  a  sheet  of  wrapping-paper. 
"Is  this  where  you  want  me  to  start  my  lessons?" 

She  almost  screeched  the  last  word;  so  that  any 
alert-eared  person,  even  so  far  away  as  the  Bethune 
house  across  the  swamp,  might  have  gathered,  with 
out  straining  the  auditory  nerves,  that  the  rela 
tion  between  herself  and  the  young  man  beside 
her  was  that  of  teacher  and  pupil — nothing  more. 

Ernie  was  a  little  puzzled;  but  his  end,  that  of 
getting  her  to  work,  was  gained,  and  the  reason  did 
not  signify  a  great  deal.  Miss  Mabel  Beamish's 
first  evening  lesson  commenced,  without  more  ado, 
and  continued  with  no  further  attempt  at  resump 
tion  of  " nonsense/'  for  half  an  hour.  At  the  end 

182 


HIS  MONEY'S  WORTH 

of  that  time,  Ernie,  tying  up  his  bundle  of  books, 
got  down  from  the  seat  after  his  pupil — who  did 
not  need  any  help  this  time,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
betrayed  an  almost  frantic  haste  to  be  gone — and 
bade  her  a  formal  good-night — to  which  she  did  not 
respond,  being  already  out  of  earshot  on  her  way 
to  the  house. 

The  teacher  hummed  a  little  tune  as  he  walked 
briskly  down  toward  the  Beamish  gate.  He  was  still 
humming  it  as  he  turned  northward  into  the  main 
trail  which  led  past  the  Beamish  and  Morton  farms 
to  the  Kernaghan  place. 

The  melody  died  in  an  interrogative  murmur, 
however,  as  Ernie  noted  a  horse,  hitched  to  a  buggy 
and  pawing  impatiently  the  ground  at  the  foot  of 
one  of  the  thick  cedar  posts  of  the  Beamish  fence, 
to  which  the  animal  was  securely  tied,  the  outfit 
being  concealed  from  view  of  any  one  in  the  farm 
yard  by  the  poplar-grove  inside  the  fence. 

As  Ernie,  trudging  along  the  wheel-rut,  reached 
a  point  opposite  the  buggy,  a  figure  detached  itself 
from  the  shadows  and  came  swiftly  across  the  space 
between  the  fence  and  the  trail.  There  was  a  threat 
easily  readable  in  the  swing  of  the  big,  square 
shoulders ;  and  the  hands,  as  well  as  one  could  make 
out  in  the  dusk,  looked  suspiciously  as  though  they 
were  clenched. 

" Hold  on,  there!"  said  a  voice,  loudly  and  ag 
gressively.  Ernie  stopped  in  an  attitude  of  watch 
ful  waiting.  "Who  in  hell  are  you?"  the  voice  pur 
sued,  in  a  vigorous  nasal. 

"I  don't  see  that  it  matters  very  much  to  you, 
183 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

whoever  you  are,"  returned  the  teacher,  stoutly; 
"but  if  you  ask  me  decently  I  don't  mind  telling 
you." 

"You're  right — it  don't  matter  none  about  the 
name,"  agreed  the  voice,  portentously;  "you  ken 
stay  anonymous  if  you  want  to.  I'm  going  to  bash 
you  face  in,  anyway." 

"I  guess  two  can  take  a  hand  in  that,"  retorted 
Ernie;  "but  it  looks  to  me  as  if  there  was  a  mis 
take  somewhere,  fellow.  How  would  it  be  if  we'd 
ask  each  other  a  few  simple  questions,  before  we 
mix  it?" 

"Mistake,  nothin' !"  roared  Master  Jimmy  Young, 
through  the  nose  he  used  as  an  auxiliary  speaking 
organ.  He  had  now  reached  the  side  of  the  road. 
' '  I  got  the  best  of  eyesight.  I  seen  your  blamed  cheap 
white  straw  hat,  with  the  black  band  on  it,  up  there 
in  the  rig.  Mistake,  hell!  What  in  thunder  d'you 
mean  by  settin'  up  to  my  girl?  Tryin'  to  kiss  her, 
you  was,  too.  I  seen  you.  Don't  lie  to  me!" 

"You'll  be  the  first  one  to  get  your  face  'bashed,' 
as  you  call  it,  if  you  say  that  again,"  said  Ernie, 
quickly,  as  he  stepped  close.  "Now  are  you  going 
to  listen  to  me  for  a  few  minutes,  till  I  clear  this 
thing  up — or  shall  we  start  right  in  on  this  rough- 
house  business  and  settle  it  that  way?" 

Mr.  Young  regarded  him  steadily  for  a  moment; 
then,  motioning  outward  with  his  hand,  folded  his 
arms  and  assumed  a  demeanor  suggestive  of  action 
temporarily  suspended — but,  oh!  so  temporarily,  if 
a  good  explanation  wasn't  forthcoming.  In  a  few 
words  Ernie  set  out  the  facts. 

184 


HIS  MONEY'S  WORTH 

"Well,  I  guess  that  all  sounds  reasonable  enough," 
said  Mr.  Young,  after  considering  a  moment;  "but 
you  an'  her  was  set  tin'  mighty  clost  together.  How 
ever,  I  believe  you,  young  fellow.  Put  her  there!" 

He  held  out  his  hand.  Ernie  shook  it.  This  func 
tion  over,  Mr.  Young  reached  into  his  upper  vest 
pocket. 

"Smoke?"  he  said.  "But  o'  course  you  do.  Any 
body  would,  with  one  o'  them  beauties  in  front  of 
their  nose.  Sent  to  the  city  for  these  here.  Tired 
o'  smokin'  Tom  Taylor's  rags  an'  dirt." 

With  the  smoothness  of  long  practice  the  speaker 
lighted  his  own  cigar  and,  sheltering  the  match 
dexterously  from  the  mischievous  night  breeze, 
reached  out  and  lit  the  teacher's  for  him. 

"Well" — Mr.  Young  exhaled  a  cheerful  geniality 
as  the  pleasant  pungency  of  "clear  Havana,  filler, 
wrapper,  an'  all,"  surmounted  the  other  scents  of  the 
summer  gloaming — "you've  took  a  weight  off  my 
mind,  young  fellow.  It  ain't  a  pleasant  thing  to 
come  out  ten  miles  with  a  horse  an'  rig,  after  doin' 
a  hard  day's  work  a-counter-jumpin',  to  take  your 
girl  for  a  little  drive,  and  find  some  other  fellow 
settin'  out  with  her,  and  her  apparently  not  objectin' 
very  hard.  Got  excited  as  hell  when  she  seen  it 
was  me,  eh?  Tell  me  about  it  again,  Bedford.  It 
listens  dam'  good,  that,  ol'  socks!" 

"Why  didn't  you  drive  up  into  the  yard?"  said 
Ernie.  "You  could  have  seen  for  yourself,  then." 

Master  Jimmy  Young  grinned  in  the  darkness. 
"Well,  you  see,"  he  said,  "the  old  man  he  don't 
know  nothin'  about  me.  You  know  what  he  is 

185 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

yourself!  The  only  way  we  can  git  a  little  while 
together,  her  an'  me,  is  for  me  to  drive  out  here, 
walk  my  horse  slow  past  the  gate,  so's  she'll  be  sure 
to  see  me,  and  then  tie  up  behind  the  bluff  here,  an' 
wait  till  she  comes  out.  There  ain't  no  way  of 
gettin'  word  to  her  that  I'm  a-comin'.  If  I'd  send 
a  note  through  the  Islay  post-office,  the  old  folks 
might  get  ahold  of  it;  and  if  I  called  up  on  the 
'phone,  she  couldn't  talk  to  me  if  they  was  in  hearin', 
or  it  would  let  the  whole  thing  out.  As  things  is, 
they  ain't  even  onto  the  fact  that  her  an'  me  knows 
each  other.  That's  the  handiest  way  to  have  it. 
Ain't  that  so?" 

Ernie  nodded. 

"Well,  here  she  comes  now,  herself,"  said  Mr. 
Young,  as  a  white  dress  flitted  around  the  corner 
of  the  grove  in  the  gathering  dusk.  "So  long,  Bed 
ford!  See  you  in  town  some  day,  maybe."  His 
cigar  end  described  a  red  semicircle  as  Jimmy's  big 
arm  swung  up  in  its  elaborate  parting  salute;  and 
Ernie,  dropping  into  the  trail  again,  resumed  his 
interrupted  monody. 

He  might  not  have  trudged  home  so  blithely  if 
he  had  known  that  Ida  Bethune,  on  her  way  back 
to  the  Morton  farm  after  a  mid-afternoon  visit 
home,  had  passed  through  the  Beamish  stable-yard 
at  that  most  inopportune  of  all  moments  when  the 
teacher,  his  back  turned,  was  supporting  Miss 
Beamish's  head  on  his  shoulder  during  the  buggy- 
mounting  episode. 

Ernie  might,  in  fact,  have  been  more  than  a  little 
worried  if  he  had  known  that  Miss  Bethune,  carrying 

186 


HIS  MONEY'S  WORTH 

a  vivid  mental  photograph  of  the  tableau  under  the 
machine-shed  roof,  had  continued  on  her  way  almost 
at  a  run,  her  eyes  bulging  with  the  hardly  held  tale 
she  was  carrying,  as  fast  as  her  flat  feet  would 
.take  her,  to  Clara  Morton. 

But  he  knew  nothing  of  it,  for  Ida  had  passed 
on  her  way  unseen  as  an  ill-favored  Ariel.  So  all  his 
way  home  that  evening  the  boy  teacher  thrilled 
dreamily — as  he  always  found  himself  doing  now 
when  alone — to  his  oft-repeated  and  oft-revised 
rehearsal  of  the  climax  he  had  prepared  for  his  sum 
mer's  wooing. 


XIV 

TROUBLE 

NO,  Ida  must  come  with  us,"  said  Clara  Mor 
ton,  her  round  chin  gathered  into  a  little  knot 
of  firmness  that  made  temporary  dents,  like  dim 
ples,  at  the  sides  of  her  mouth. 

She  was  standing,  a  little  away  from  Ernie,  at 
the  Mortons'  farm-yard  gate.  Each  bore  a  two- 
quart  pail — the  "lesson"  on  this  night  (which  was 
the  evening  following  the  events  told  of  in  the  last 
chapter)  having  taken  the  form  of  a  suggestion  by 
the  teacher  that  they  go  over  and  gather  some  rasp 
berries  on  the  school  section,  next  Charlie  Tinker's 
place.  Ernie  had  discovered  the  patch  of  raspberry- 
bushes  during  one  of  the  prairie  strolls  with  which, 
after  the  manner  of  the  days  when  he  had  been  a 
pupil  instead  of  a  teacher,  he  was  wont  to  while 
away  the  noon  intermission  of  his  teaching  day; 
pondering,  observing,  thinking  at  delightful  ran 
dom,  as  he  wandered  through  flower-flecked  thickets 
or  paused  on  sunny  knolls. 

Clara  had  been  her  usual  pleasant  self  this  eve 
ning;  but  Ernie,  who  by  this  time  was  well  enough 
acquainted  with  her  to  sense  changes  of  mood  that 

188 


TROUBLE 

might  have  passed  unnoticed  in  the  earlier  days  of 
their  association,  felt  a  slight,  indefinable  coolness 
in  the  air  that  the  July  evening  certainly  could  not 
be  blamed  for. 

"What's  wrong  with  you  to-night?"  he  said,  with 
boyhood's  bluntness. 

"Oh — nothing."  Clara  put  up  her  chin  a  little 
and  looked  away.  "I  just  want  Ida  to  go  with  us — 
that's  all." 

"But  why?"  persisted  Ernie.  "We've  gone  out 
by  ourselves  hundreds  of  times,  if  we've  gone  out 
once — out  to  bring  the  cows  home — over  to  the 
school  to  play  and  sing  at  the  organ — all  the  way 
to  Bethunes'  with  Ida  several  Saturday  evenings, 
to  see  that  the  bullfrogs  didn't  get  her,  and  then  all 
the  way  home  again  by  ourselves.  I  don't  see  why 
in  thunder" — Ernie  was  getting  cross — "you  want 
that  goggle-eyed  trouble-maker  to  trot  after  us  on 
this  particular  evening.  Anyway" — he  suddenly 
thought  of  a  plea  that  would  budge  Clara,  if  any 
thing  would — "she'll  be  tired  after  her  day's  work, 
and  want  a  rest." 

"Naouw,"  came  a  sudden  pussy-cat  sound  behind 
them,  at  which  both  started,  "I  aren't  tired  a  bit. 
And  I  'aven't  goggle-eyes,  either.  I  keep  my  eyes 
looking  one  way,  I  do — not  every  way,  I  down't." 
Miss  Bethune  said  the  last  words  in  a  meaning  way 
that  Ernie,  who  was  too  mad  (as  the  word  is  used 
colloquially)  to  listen  very  intently,  anyway,  failed 
to  catch ;  though  he  noticed  Clara  glanced  fleetingly 
at  him  as  Ida  spoke. 

Their  companion  and  chaperon  had  donned  a 

189 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

poke-bonnet,  possibly  with  the  idea  of  saving  her 
complexion;  but  a  handier  device  for  concealed  ob 
servation  than  a  poke-bonnet  has  never  been  in 
vented.  All  chaperons  should  wear  them.  They 
should  be  made  a  part  of  the  uniform  of  the  secret 
service. 

"I  shall  be  'appy  to  come  with  you,"  she  said, 
with  relish;  turning  first  to  Clara,  then  directing 
her  pale-green  smile  along  the  gallery  of  her  bonnet- 
brim  toward  Ernie.  "I  feel  fresh  as  a  dyzie, 
I  do." 

Ernie  muttered  something  under  his  breath,  too 
low  for  Clara  to  hear;  and  the  three  started  out 
rather  unsociably;  the  only  gay  one  being  Miss 
Bethune,  who  varied  her  jerky  amble  through  the 
grass  by  Clara's  side  with  little  squealing  excursions 
after  butterflies;  returning  always  to  clap  her  bonnet 
back  on  her  head  and  narrowly,  from  under  the 
brim  of  it,  to  watch  the  big  hand  and  the  little  hand 
that  swung,  a  bare  six  inches  apart,  between  Ernie 
and  Clara  on  Clara's  opposite  side.  During  one  of 
these  intervals  of  vigilance  Miss  Bethune  was  re 
warded  by  the  glimpse  of  a  stealthy  movement  of 
the  big  hand  toward  the  smaller  one.  But  as  soon 
as  contact  came  the  little  hand  drew  briskly  away 
and  Clara  stepped  forward  a  pace,  her  fingers  thrust 
under  her  apron,  where  they  remained. 

The  trio  were  crossing  a  brake  at  the  edge  of  which 
roses,  now  past  their  prime  and  most  of  them  lack 
ing  a  petal  or  two,  starred  the  slightly  tarnished 
and  summer- worn  verdance  of  July's  foliage,  when 
out  from  among  the  sticky  green  leaves  and  faded 

190 


TROUBLE 

blossoms  there  darted  suddenly  a  wonderful  shape. 
It  was  a  great  gold-and-black  butterfly.  The  insect 
seemed  to  kindle  a  little  flame  wherever  it  touched 
the  shrubbery  in  the  shining  dalliance  of  its  course 
toward  the  open  grassy  swells — where  there  was  a 
little  breeze  to  help  it  go  and  no  twig  lacework  to 
bar  the  way. 

"Ow,  aren't  'e  a  beauty!"  howled  Miss  Bethune, 
grabbing  off  her  bonnet  and  making  for  the  insect 
with  a  stormy  skirt-thrashing  and  a  bob  and  thrust 
of  angular  knees.  "Ow,  ow!  I  must  'ave  'imt 
anyw'y!" 

"  You'll  scare  the  thing  to  death,  even  if  you  don't 
squash  it  when  you  get  it,"  observed  Ernie,  grinning 
in  spite  of  himself. 

"Ida!"  said  Clara  Morton,  suddenly,  "come  here! 
Let  that  butterfly  alone." 

"Sha'n't,"  said  Miss  Bethune,  promptly,  con 
tinuing  her  pursuit.  Chance  favored  her.  The 
beautiful  wings,  fluttering  frantically,  had  become 
tangled  in  a  webby  weed-top.  Up  rushed  Miss 
Bethune  and  clapped  her  bonnet  triumphantly  over 
the  weed  and  the  insect. 

Ernie  had  not  imagined  it  was  possible  for  Clara 
to  display  anger.  She  had  always  seemed,  in  spite 
of  her  piquant  girlishness  in  some  respects,  so  equable, 
so  maturely  contained,  so  tolerant  and  kind — almost 
like  a  serene  middle-aged  woman  who  has  formed 
the  habit  of  being  gracious  to  everybody  and  taking 
things  as  they  come. 

But  now  he  saw  her,  with  something  of  the  Morton 
litheness  of  movement,  dart  across  to  where  the  other 

191 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

girl,  one  hand  pressing  down  the  bonnet,  looked  up, 
crawking  like  a  quarrelsome  crow. 

"Let  it  go!"  said  Clara,  and,  but  for  the  lighter 
timbre  of  her  voice,  it  might  have  been  Adam  Mor 
ton  himself  speaking.  "Right  now!" 

She  did  not  lay  a  hand  on  the  Bethune  girl,  just 
stood  over  her,  one  arm  extended  and  the  forefinger 
pointing  down  toward  the  half-flattened  bonnet. 
The  other  hesitated,  wrinkling  her  sharp  nose  and 
curling  her  lips  up;  then,  with  a  last  mean  push 
downward,  as  if  determined  to  end  the  butterfly,  any 
way,  jerked  the  bonnet  away  and  flounced  to  her  feet. 

Clara  stooped  over  anxiously.  The  insect,  saved 
by  a  thick  upward-protruding  stick  that  had  acted 
as  a  kind  of  tent-pole  and  had  in  fact  pricked  Miss 
Bethune's  palm  rather  sharply  as  she  gave  that  final 
thrust  downward,  lay  palpitating  but  unharmed  in 
a  little  basin-like  hollow  of  grass.  Clara  pulled 
away  the  matted  herbage  from  above  it ;  and  the  big 
butterfly,  no  doubt  agreeably  surprised  to  find 
itself  still  alive,  flashed  out  of  its  jail  and  flickered 
joyously  away. 

At  this  the  impelling  force  which  had  lifted  kind 
and  competent  little  Clara  Morton  for  a  moment 
out  of  herself  in  her  instantaneous,  almost  fierce, 
flare  of  mothering  for  the  needy  thing,  fell  away. 
She  returned  to  where  Ernie  stood  in  the  path,  with 
her  head  lowered  and  her  cheeks  flushing  half- 
shamefacedly. 

"Gosh!"  said  that  young  man,  simply,  regarding 
her  with  his  hand  curved  in  an  expressive  attitude 
around  his  chin. 

192 


TROUBLE 

But  now  the  attention  of  the  two  was  suddenly 
and  startlingly  drawn  toward  Miss  Bethune,  who 
burst  into  speech  like  a  tornado. 

' '  Yes !' '  she  caterwauled.  ' '  Ow  yes !  Fine  goin's- 
on  in  our  'appy  home,  aren't  there;  an'  huss"  (Miss 
Bethune  probably  meant  "us")  "carryin'  things  off 
with  an  'igh  hand,  and  a-horderin'  our  betters 
*  'ands  hoff,'  just  as  if  our  own  mar  weren't  a-carryin' 
on  with  the  'ired  'elp  fit  to  make  a  nanny-gowt 
blush,  an'—" 

1  'You  shut  up!"  The  voice  was  that  of  Ernie 
Bedford,  who  let  go  the  exclamation  with  something 
like  an  explosion.  ''Shut  up  and  clear  out  o'  this. 
I  never  laid  a  hand  on  a  girl  in  my  life — but,  so  help 
me  Jimmy  Jackson,  if  there's  any  more  of  that, 
I'll — I'll  spank  you,  or  do  something.  I  won't  be 
able  to  help  it !  Scoot  now !" 

Miss  Bethune  stepped  away  a  few  yards;  then 
faced  about  and  shifted  the  attack.  "An'  you  your 
self,"  she  began,  her  pale-green  face  twitching  under 
the  bonnet -brim;  "you — " 

"That's  all  right,  sail  into  me  if  you  want  to," 
said  Ernie,  "but  save  something  up  for  another 
time,  or  you  may  run  short.  We've  had  enough 
of  you  for  to-day.  Go  home!  Go  anywhere!  Go 
an'  die!" 

"Yes — yeou  want  to  get  shut  o'  me,  yeou  tee-oo!" 
Miss  Bethune  screech-owled.  "The  whole  country 
side  torkin'  abarter  mar — " 

"Jumping  ginger!"  bluffed  Ernie,  advancing  a 
couple  of  steps  and  glancing  toward  a  clump  of  wil 
low  saplings  on  his  left.  "Where's  there  a  switch?" 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Miss  Ida  Bethune  turned  and  shamblingly  fled, 
her  bonnet-strings  flapping  in  the  breeze  of  her 
going.  The  atmosphere  seemed  very  quiet  and  fresh 
after  she  and  her  voice  were  removed.  A  sob  made 
Ernie  turn  about  quickly.  Clara  had  sunk  down  in 
a  little  heap  and  was  crying. 

Ernie,  with  a  sudden  impulse,  dropped  on  one 
knee  beside  her  and  laid  his  arm  about  her  shoul 
ders.  His  heart  was  beating  vigorously.  "  Don't 
cry — dear,"  he  said.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  actually  used  that  term  to  Clara,  although  not 
by  any  means  the  first  time  he  had  been  impelled 
to  use  it. 

Clara  suffered  the  arm  to  remain  in  its  position 
for  a  scant  half -minute.  Then  she  pushed  it  gently 
but  firmly  away  and  rose  to  her  feet,  her  eyes  turned 
from  him. 

"You  mustn't,"  she  said.  After  a  moment  she 
faced  about  and  raised  an  oddly  careworn  little 
countenance  to  the  teacher. 

"You  heard  what  that  girl  said  about  mother," 
she  began,  letting  her  hand,  with  its  little  wet  ball 
of  handkerchief,  drop  against  her  apron.  "It  isn't 
so.  I — I  don't  want  you  to  think — " 

"Of  course  it  isn't  so,"  comforted  Ernie;  but 
he  could  not  help  remembering  what  he  had  seen 
himself.  Perhaps  something  of  this  showed  in  his 
eyes,  for  Clara  Morton,  after  regarding  him  for  a 
moment,  went  on: 

"I  mean,  it  isn't  so  on  her  side.  But  I — I  don't 
like  that  Mr.  Ashton.  I  wish  father  would  send 
him  away.  But  if  father's  noticed  how  he's — how 

194 


TROUBLE 

he's  making  up  to  mother,  he's  never  let  on.  I 
guess  he  has  a  kind  of  a — contempt,  like — for  Mr. 
Ashton ;  and  he's  never  had  any  reason  not  to  trust 
mother;  so  he's  not  worrying  himself  about  it  at 
all."  Clara  paused,  glanced  up  at  her  companion, 
and  again  lowered  her  eyes.  "I  shouldn't  be  talk 
ing  about  this  to  you — and  I  wouldn't,  if  that  girl 
hadn't  said  those  things  just  now  about  mother. 
I  just  want  to  tell  you,  mother  doesn't  care  any 
thing  for  Ashton  except  to  hear  him  talk  about  the 
things  in  town.  She's  just  worrying  herself  to  death 
— just  sick — to  get  back  to  the  city;  and  we  can't 
go.  That's  why  she  doesn't — doesn't  take  much 
interest  in  the  place  here.  Mother's  a  good  worker, 
if  she  could  only  forget  about  town.  But  I" — 
Clara  repeated  it,  almost  without  realizing  she  was 
doing  so — "I  don't  like  that  Mr.  Ashton. " 

"I  don't,  either,"  said  Ernie  Bedford,  adding, 
after  a  moment:  "But  I  wouldn't  worry  about 
him.  He's  harmless." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that,"  said  Clara,  soberly, 
continuing  her  theme  half  as  though  thinking  aloud. 
"He  would  be,  as  far  as  mother's  concerned,  if  she 
was  satisfied  at  home.  But  she  wants  to  get  back 
to  town  so  bad  it's  almost  a — a  mania,  like — with 
her,  now.  And  Ashton's  always  talking  to  her 
about  it — telling  her  what  a  'jolly  shame'  it  is  she 
has  to  'bury7  herself,  and  all  that.  You  know  how 
he  talks."  * 

The  girl  hesitated  again;  looked  at  Ernie  closely 
for  a  moment,  with  something  of  Adam  Morton's 
half-searching,  half-cogitative  gleam  in  her  bright 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

irises;  drew  a  deep  breath,  as  of  a  resolution  taken; 
and  said: 

"I  don't  know  whether  I'm  doing  right — our  folks 
never  were  the  kind  that  talk  about  people — but 
I'm  going  to  tell  you  one  thing  that  makes  me  be 
lieve  Ashton  isn't  quite  as  'harmless'  as  you  and 
father  seem  to  think.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  this 
so  that  if  anything  ever  should  happen — which  I  pray 
God  every  night  that  it  won't — to  break  up  our  home, 
you'd  know  mother  hadn't  been  the  head  one  in  it, 
anyway.  You  remember  the  day  Ashton  drove  out 
with  me — the  day  he  first  came  to  our  place?" 

"Yes,"  said  Ernie,  reddening  a  little.  "We 
should  have  made  him  come  out  in  our  rig;  but  he 
seemed  so  set  on  going  out  in  your  'trap,'  as  he 
called  it,  that  we  didn't  see  how  we  were  going  to 
head  him  off  without  a  free-for-all,  right  there  in 
town.  We  did  think  of  doing  it,  even  if  it  came  to 
that,  and  then  we  sized  him  up  as  just  a  kind  of 
silly  haw-haw  son  of  a  moose,  and  decided  it  would 
be  safe  to  let  him  go  along.  Besides,  Henry  said 
you'd  get  home  long  before  dark,  and  there  would 
be  neighbors'  rigs  meeting  you  all  along  the  road, 
being  Saturday  afternoon.  If  we'd  ever  thought 
there  was  a  chance  he'd  be  rough,  or  would  have 
any  show  to  get  fresh,  even  if  he  took  the  notion, 
we'd  have  taken  him  along  with  us,  even  if  we'd 
had  to  rope  and  tie  him.  You  don't  mean  to  say  " — 
Ernie  looked  suddenly  at  his  companion — "that  he 
did  try  to  get  funny,  after  all?  If  that's  so,  I'll  go 
and  paste  him  myself,  right  to-night,  without  even 
telling  him  what  it's  for." 

196 


TROUBLE 

"Oh  no!"  Clara  half -smiled.  "He  was  polite 
enough,  that  way.  But  he  talked  a  steady  streak, 
all  the  way  home.  He  yarned  away  about  his  ad 
ventures  with  women  over  in  his  own  country — 
they  must  be  funny  women  over  there,  if  they're 
like  what  he  said.  He  said  the  'bally  darlings' 
had  always  seemed  to  'take'  to  him,  'somehow'; 
and  he  mentioned  that  some  man's  wife  had  gone 
off  with  him,  about  twenty  years  ago.  I  remember 
asking  him  if  he  thought  that  was  the  right  thing, 
to  go  away  with  a  married  woman,  even  if  they 
thought  they  loved  each  other.  He  said  some 
thing,  in  a  way  I  didn't  much  like,  about  'jolly  little 
love,  so-called,  in  the  affair  at  all.'  There  was  noth 
ing  wrong  with  it,  he  said,  as  far  as  the  man  was 
concerned.  He  let  on  it  was  men's  prog — prog — 
Do  you  know  what  the  word  is?" 

Ernie  rubbed  his  head  a  moment .  * '  Prerogative  ? ' ' 
he  hazarded. 

"That's  it,"  Clara  went  on;  "he  said  it  was  men's 
parogative,  or  whatever  it  is,  to  'go  on'  with  women, 
even  after  the  men  are  married  themselves,  and  that 
whatever  happened  was  the  women's  'own  lookout.' 
He  said  you  couldn't  expect  a  man  to  'tie  himself 
down'  because  of  a  'finicky'  marriage  ceremony 
which  'might  have  been  a  mistake  in  the  first 
place.'  Now  he  wasn't  very  sober,  of  course,  and 
all  this  may  have  been  talk,  even  the  part  about 
going  away  with  the  other  man's  wife.  But 
it  showed  the  way  his  thoughts  went;  and  I 
wouldn't  have  ever  liked  him  very  much,  anyway. 
And  now,  since  he's  getting  mother  talked  about  the 
H  197 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

way  he  is,  I — well,  I  pretty  near  hate  him,  that's 
all!" 

Ernie  was  silent  for  a  moment,  looking  at  the 
young  girl  as  she  stood  across  from  him,  a  pathetic 
and  burdened  little  figure  in  the  gathering  twilight. 
Then  an  impulse — a  mighty  impulse,  in  which  grow 
ing  love  blended  with  all  the  spontaneous  and 
chivalrous  things  that  beat  with  such  beautiful,  ir 
recoverable  strength  in  young  men's  veins  made 
him  take  a  step  toward  her.  He  put  out  his  two 
arms;  then,  somewhat  blunderingly,  stepped  close, 
till  his  finger-ends  touched  her  shoulders. 

"No!"  The  tone  was  imperative,  almost  sharp, 
as  Clara  drew  back  a  step.  "I  told  you  once  before 
to-night  you  mustn't,  didn't  I?" 

Ernie  dropped  his  arms.  The  rebuff,  coming  at 
the  point  it  did,  jarred  his  nerves  so  that  he  flared 
out  in  sudden  irritation: 

"What  on  earth's  the  matter  with  you  to-day, 
Clara?" 

Adam  Morton's  daughter  took  a  long  look  at  him 
with  Adam  Morton's  eyes. 

"If  you  don't  know,"  she  said,  enigmatically, 
"it's  not  worth  while  me  telling  you.  Come  on, 
now — let's  go  back  home.  It's  too  late  to  pick  any 
berries  to-night." 


XV 

HOMESTEAD   INSANITY 

WHAT'S  the  heighth  of  recklessness?"  pro 
pounded  Henry  Nicol  of  the  teacher,  as,  hav 
ing  concluded  his  Sunday-morning  chores,  he  leaned 
placidly  on  the  hay-pen  and  watched  Ernie,  in  the 
same  locality,  fumble  for  a  match  to  light  his  pipe. 

Ernie  Bedford  somewhat  dismally  shook  his  head. 

"Smokin'  near  a  haystack  when  last  season's  hay 
is  near  done  and  the  new  hay  ain't  quite  ready  to 
cut,"  said  Henry.  "Come  on  over  behint  the 
blacksmith  shop,  School-teacher.  There's  nothin' 
there  to  burn  but  plowsheers,  an'  the  edges  o'  them's 
all  burnt  to  darnation  anyway.  That  new  shop- 
hand  o'  Nat  Bourke's  does  a  worse  job  on  them  every 
time  I  take  'em  into  town." 

With  this  Henry  led  the  way  to  the  west  side  of 
the  little  auxiliary  shanty  that  was  called  the  "shop," 
and  sat  down  on  an  old  buggy-cushion  that  was 
losing  its  "stuffin's." 

"Set  right  down  on  thon  drag-harra  turned  teeth 
up,  an'  make  yourself  to  home,  School-teacher," 
Henry  invited  then,  rolling  in  his  palms  the  tobacco 
he  had  cut  on  the  way;  "it's  a  fine  mornin',  and 

199 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

we  don't  have  to  go  to  work,  an'  we  don't  give  a 
continental  for  nobody,  do  we?" 

Ernie  sat  down — not  on  the  drag-harrow — drew 
his  heels  up,  pulled  his  hat  low  over  his  eyes,  and 
puffed  away  in  a  kind  of  dour  contemplativeness. 

Henry  Nicol,  protecting  a  lit  match  with  the  sure- 
ness  of  long  practice,  in  spite  of  the  tricksy  summer 
wind-puffs  that  swept  at  intervals  around  the  cor 
ner  of  the  "shop,"  soon  had  his  own  pipe  going. 
He  leaned  back,  exhaling  the  strong  blue  smoke 
luxuriously,  and  took  a  long  sidewise  look  at  his 
companion. 

"This  here  love's  a  great  ins'tution,  ain't  it, 
School-teacher?"  he  observed,  a  shadowy  grin  feel 
ing  its  way  out  from  beneath  the  demure  wombat 
whiskers;  "sometimes  it  rains;  an'  then  the  sun 
comes  out  and  stays  out  so  long  you  'most  wish  it 
would  rain  again  or  somethin',  to  liven  things  up." 

Ernie  Bedford  grunted  incommunicatively. 

"At  least,  that's  the  way  it  is  with  young  folks" 
— Henry's  rallying  merged  softly  into  pleasant 
meditativeness — "but  when  you  get  as  old  as  what 
I  am  you  don't  want  any  of  the  rain-an' -sunshine 
business.  You  want  it  all  sun.  That's  the  way  it's 
b'en  with  me,  School-teacher,  and  I'm  well  satisfied." 

"What  about  you?"  said  Ernie.  "I  would  think, 
with  all  these  terrible  examples  around  here,  you'd 
want  to  stay  single." 

"School-teacher,"  said  Henry  Nicol,  "for  pretty 
near  fifty  years  me  an'  my  pipe  thought  we  wanted 
to  stay  single;  then,  one  thrashin'-time,  somethin' 
hit  me — bump !  I  remember  it  like  it  was  yestidday. 

200 


HOMESTEAD  INSANITY 

"I  was  workin'  for  Tom  then — my  first  season 
in  this  settlement — an'  I  had  went  over  to  thrash 
for  him  at  Bryans's,  a  place  ran  by  a  woman  who 
hires  her  own  help  since  Bryans  skipped  the  country. 
School-teacher,  it  come  dinner-time,  an'  I  was 
a-settin'  at  the  table  with  the  rest  o'  the  boys,  when 
in  there  come  a  big,  husky,  independent-lookm* 
woman,  with  a  hell  of  a  fine  roast  o'  beef,  which  she 
set  down  on  a  side-table  an'  started  to  carve  for  the 
men  while  the  other  wimmen  handed  the  plates 
around.  Well,  sir,  I  was  settin'  square  acrost  from 
her,  an'  I  couldn't  to  keep  my  eyes  ofFn  her.  No, 
sir,  I  couldn't.  There  she  was,  a-smilin'  an*  a-carvin' 
an'  jollyin'  the  wimmen  as  they  took  the  plates; 
an'  there  was  I  a-gapin',  red  as  a  beet.  Fin'ly,  the 
roast  it  was  done  down  to  the  bone.  Well,  this 
woman,  she  slapped  down  her  knife  an'  fork,  h'isted 
the  plate  up,  an'  turned  to  go  back  to  the  kitchen. 
She  ran  her  eye  along  the  line  of  men  at  th'  table, 
to  see  how  they  was  feedin',  an'  when  her  eye  got 
to  my  plate  she  saw  I  hadn't  began  to  eat,  an' 
slung  me  a  look,  right  fair  in  the  face. 

"Well,  School-teacher,  it  ain't  no  use  o'  me  tryin' 
to  tell  you  what  I  seen  in  that  look,  because  I  'ain't 
got  the  words.  Even  if  I  had  th'  edj  'cation  you 
got,  I  wouldn't  have  the  words.  They  ain't  words 
anywheres  that  would  do." 

"What  did  you  do  then?"  inquired  Ernie. 

"Well,"  went  on  Henry,  smiling  pensively  and 
stroking  his  yellowish-gray  whiskers,  "I  didn't  do 
nothin'  at  all  then.  But  after  dinner  I  was  a-hikin' 
back  to  th'  stable  to  get  out  my  team,  and  Fate — I 

201 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

guess  that's  what  they  call  it  in  the  stories,  ain't  it, 
School-teacher? — Fate  led  me  apast  the  wood-pile 
where  that  red-haired  (did  I  mention  she  had  red 
hair?  No,  I  guess  I  didn't.  Not  the  kind  that  goes 
with  freckles,  though,  this  wasn't) — where  that  red- 
haired  angel  was  a-buckin'  wood.  Her  shoulders 
was  a-goin'  up  an1  down,  an'  that  poor  ol'  buck 
saw  a-whangin'  away.  I  never  seen  a  woman  yit 
that  could  buck  wood  right,  nor  you  didn't,  neither, 
School-teacher;  you  know  you  never. 

"Now,  I  hate  to  see  any  woman  doin'  a  man's 
work,  an'  when  I  saw  her,  'specially  an'  all  them  lazy 
sons  o'  mooses  o'  thrashers  a-settin'  around  on  the 
wagon  tongues,  smokin',  somethin'  just  seemed  to 
take  me  by  the  scruff  o'  the  neck  an'  shove  me 
alongside  that  saw-hoss.  Yet,  for  a  minute,  I  didn't 
like  to  say  nothin',  because  with  a  woman  like  that, 
if  she  was  to  get  th'  notion  I  was  sassy,  I  dunno 
what  'd  'a'  happened.  She  might  of  fetched  me  a 
crack  with  one  o'  them  chunks  o'  wood,  right  in 
front  of  all  the  boys." 

"So  you  thought  you'd  pass  on,  after  all?"  said 
Ernie. 

"Eh?"  said  Henry,  turning  around.  "Like  hell 
I  passed  on!  I  wasn't  goin'  to  lose  no  chanct  like 
that,  for  fear  of  a  crack  on  th'  head.  Don't  you 
understand  I  was  struck  on  the  woman?  Pass  on! 
Like  blazes  I  did.  What  I  was  tellin'  you  was  that 
I  didn't  like  to  say  nothin',  for  she  couldn't  hear 
very  plain  for  the  buck-saw  an'  she  might  have 
thought  it  was  lip.  So  neither  I  did  say  nothin'. 
But  I  never  passed  on,  you  bet.  I  pushed  in  an* 

202 


HOMESTEAD  INSANITY 

grabbed  aholt  o'  the  buck-saw,  right  near  where 
her  hands  was — " 

''Bully  for  you!"  applauded  Ernie  Bedford. 

" — an'  I  said:  'Let  me  do  this.  You  get  back 
into  th'  house  an'  'tend  to  the  cookin';  I  smell 
somethin'  burninV 

1  'Now,  School-teacher,  I  got  a  kind  of  a  way — I 
can't  help  it  an'  I  don't  claim  no  credit  for  it — o1 
sizin'  folks  up  an'  get  tin'  at  what  they're  thinkin' 
about.  A  man  that's  b'en  all  alone  with  his  pipe 
for  about  fifty  years  gets  to  thinkin'  a  hull  lot  about 
what's  goin'  on.  He  gets  ust  to  people's  ways  quite 
a  bit.  Well,  it  seemed  to  me  that  that  there  woman 
wasn't  buckin'  wood  because  she  needed  it.  That 
struck  me  when  I  made  the  remark  about  the  cookin', 
sayin'  I  had  smelt  stuff  burnin'.  That  was  a  break, 
because  there  wouldn't  be  nothin'  on  cookin'  after 
dinner  was  over.  But  then  that  made  me  think: 
'What's  this  here  woman  doin',  out  buckin'  wood 
after  dinner.  It's  a  warm  day,  an'  she  won't  need 
no  wood  until  supper-time.  Aha!  I  got  you, 
miss,'  I  says  to  myself;  an'  when  she  pulled  away 
from  the  saw,  an'  set  her  hands  on  her  hips  and 
looked  me  up  and  down,  I  jest  grinned;  for  I 
knew. 

"  'You  got  more  nerve  than  a  baskit  o'  monkeys,' 
she  says,  the  corners  of  her  eyes  crinklin'  a  little, 
'but  you're  a  gentleman.' 

"'A'right,'  I  says.  'I'll  buck  you  a  half  a  cord 
o'  wood  f'r  that.' 

"She  leaned  over  a  little.  'Bring  me  an  armf'l 
into  the  kitchen,  right  now,'  she  says,  'while  them 

203 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

girls  is  out  in  the  big  room,  finishin'  dinner.     I  got 
somethin'  nice  for  you.' 

I  'Did  I  wait,  School-teacher?     Did  I?    I  picked 
up  that  there  armful  o'  wood  so  quick  I  was  in  the 
kitchen  a'most  the  same  time  as  her,  an'  she  had 
a  head-start  o'  me  cl'ar  to  the  rain-bar'l. 

II  There  was  nobody  in  the  kitchen — one  o'  them 
there  sheds  it  was — summer  kitchens  they  call  'em. 
The  door  into  the  big  room  was  open  a  little  crack; 
but  the  neighbor  women  was  a-quackin'  away  over 
their  tea,  an'  payin'  no  attention,  anyways.     Well, 
School-teacher,  I  wasn't  always  a  old  man.     I  was 
a  boy  onct,  an'  a  bad  young  egg,  too,  though  I  say 
it  myself.     So,  when  I  come  into  that  kitchen  an' 
slung  down  the  wood,  I  done  what  I  would  'a'  done 
some  twenty  or  thirty-odd  years  b'fore  that." 

''What  did  you  do?"  said  Ernie. 

"Why,  I  teetered  up,  grinnin',  and  shoved  my  arm 
arount  her  waist,  an'  aimed  a  kiss  at  her.  Aimed, 
I  say,  because  it  never  got  there.  No,  sir.  She 
jerked  away  an'  give  me  a  shove  that  darn  near  sent 
me  through  that  kitchen  wall. 

'"Don't  you  be  too  previous,'  she  said.  'I  didn't 
mean  nothin'  like  that  when  I  fetched  you  in  here. 
I'm  not  one  o'  the  help,  man.  I'm  Missis  Bryans.' 

"'Mackinaw!'  I  says.  'I  guess  I'll  be  goin'. 
Bryans  ain't  around,  is  he?'  (You  see,  School 
teacher,  I  didn't  know  nothin'  about  the  affairs  of 
the  neighborhood  then;  I'd  only  b'en  there  a  month 
or  so.) 

"'No,  Bryans  ain't,'  she  says,  her  face  gittin'  long 
for  a  minute;  'he  ain't  within  four  hundred  miles  o' 

204 


HOMESTEAD  INSANITY 

-» 

here,  an*  ain't  likely  to  be.  But  that's  no  excuse 
for  you,  you  old  rascal.  You  just  keep  your  hands 
to  yourself.' 

"'I  got  to  go  now,'  I  remember  I  says  then,  kind 
o'  distant.  I  wasn't  feelin'  very  good,  after  what 
she  said,  School-teacher.  When  you  get  struck  on 
a  person,  like  that,  it  don't  make  you  feel  very  good 
to  hear  her  tell  you  she's  a  married  woman.  So  I 
turned,  with  a  kind  of  a  chunk  in  my  throat,  an' 
onlatched  the  door. 

"'No,  hold  on  a  minute,  Mr.  Bad  Man,'  she  says. 
I  looked  around  kind  o'  slow.  She  reached  up  De- 
hint  a  lot  of  bottles  o'  liniment  an'  horse  medicine 
that  was  on  a  shelf. 

'"I  said  I  had  somethin'  nice,  didn't  I?'  she  says, 
bringin'  somethin'  down  an'  pullin'  out  the  cork. 
'I'm  a  woman  of  my  word,  even  when  a  man  doesn't 
deserve  it.' 

"School-teacher,  a  minute  more  an'  I  was  wrapped 
arount  the  finest  snort  o'  rye  I'd  ever  hed  in  my  life. 
I  handed  her  back  the  bottle;  then  I  ketched  holt 
of  the  sides  of  my  overalls  an'  started  to  dance. 

"'Go  on  about  your  business  now,'  she  says,  cork- 
in'  the  bottle  and  stickin'  it  back  where  she  got  it, 
'an'  don't  tell  any  of  them  men,  or  they'll  be  thievin' 
around  in  here  and  get  their  heads  broke,  an'  yours, 
too.' 

"So  there  I  was,  you  see,  School-teacher — the 
favored  one.  If  a  man,  even  a  whiskert  ol'  pictur' 
o'  misery  like  me,  can't  get  nowheres  with  a  start 
like  that,  he'd  better  go  away  and  drownd  him 
self.  I'm  goin'  to  marry  that  woman,  School- 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

teacher,  before  this  year's  out.  I  promisst  her,  an1 
she's  a-promisst  me — as  soon  as  Jerry  Bryans's  seven 
years  is  up.  She  'ain't  had  the  scratch  of  a  pen  off 
o'  him  for  over  six  years  an'  a  half,  an'  if  he  ain't 
dead,  the  law,  as  you  know,  says  he  ought  to  be. 
That's  all." 

Ernie  sat  silent  for  a  moment,  pressing  his  to 
bacco  down  in  his  pipe-bowl  with  a  reflective  thumb 
as  Henry  finished  his  tale  of  tranquil  day-end  love. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you're  lucky."  Then  the 
shadows,  that  had  been  lifted  momentarily  by 
Henry's  yarn,  fell  again  over  his  countenance. 

Henry  Nicol,  observing  this,  half-smiled  again 
to  himself;  but  said  nothing  until  his  pipe,  singing 
shrilly  in  its  stem,  told  him  it  was  empty.  Then  he 
put  his  hand  to  the  ground  and,  with  a  single  springy, 
uncoiling  movement,  rose  to  his  feet.  From  the 
standing  position  Henry  performed  his  favorite 
feat  of  jumping  up  and  cracking  his  heels  together 
in  mid-air. 

"How  are  you  for  a  walk,  School-teacher?"  he 
said;  "a  six-mile  walk  before  dinner — three  there 
an'  three  back?" 

"Where?"  inquired  Ernie,  spiritlessly. 

"Over  to  the  spookiest  ol'  place  in  this  settle 
ment,"  replied  Henry.  "You  mind  Bill  Hunt,  that 
they  gathered  in  off  his  homestid,  crazy,  after  him 
chasin'  them  Harrisons  out  of  their  house  with  an 
ax?  Well,  it's  his  old  shanty  I'm  goin'  to  take 
you  to  see.  Neil  Collingwood,  the  constable,  just 
locked  her  up  and  left  her  the  way  she  was.  He 
left  the  key  with  Tom  here.  Tom  went  over  that 

206 


HOMESTEAD  INSANITY 

day  an'  helped  him  rope  an'  tie  ol'  Bill.  Neil  said 
if  he  took  the  key  into  his  office  in  town,  he'd  lose 
it,  sure.  I'll  get  it  ofFn  the  clock-shelf  in  here  and 
take  it  with  us,  so's  we  can  have  a  little  peek  into 
the  shanty  when  we  get  there.  It's  the  most  cur'ous 
old  caboose  you  ever  seen — all  English  stuff,  an' 
that,  inside  it." 

"Well,"  said  Ernie  Bedford,  climbing  morosely 
to  his  feet,  "I  s'pose  we  might  as  well  do  that  as 
anything  else.  We've  got  nearly  three  hours — 
three  long,  slow  hours — to  put  in  before  dinner 
time,  haven't  we?" 

"And  if  we  don't  go  before  dinner,  we  won't  go 
after  dinner,  eh?"  observed  Henry,  slyly,  "for  it 
don't  need  no  prophet  to  say  where  we're  goin'  as 
soon  as  dinner's  over — does  it,  School-teacher?" 

"I'm  not  going  anywhere  this  afternoon."  Er 
nie  Bedford  said  this  with  grim,  jaw-set  resolution, 
as  if  Henry  Nicol,  his  only  auditor  at  the  moment, 
had  been  the  one  most  concerned  in  the  decision. 

"Well,"  Henry  grinned,  in  humorous  enjoyment, 
"I  guess  we  ain't  none  of  us  goin'  to  try  to  make 
you  go  anywheres  you  don't  want  to  go,  this  after 
noon  or  any  other  afternoon,  boy.  'Far  be  it  from 
such,'  as  the  feller  says.  Just  hold  on  till  I  get  that 
key,  an'  111  be  right  with  you." 

Henry  disappeared  into  the  Kernaghan  farm 
house,  and,  after  a  moment  or  two,  came  out, 
dangling  by  its  string  a  steel  key  of  odd  pattern. 

"Old  Bill  had  a  patent  lock  on  his  door,"  he  said, 
submitting  the  key  for  the  teacher's  scrutiny.  "I 
bet  you  never  seen  a  key  like  that  before,  School- 

207 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

teacher.  The  lock  cost  him  more  than  what  the 
shanty  did — though  he's  got  some  pretty  good  stuff 
inside,  scattered  around  all  over.  Ol'  Bill  was  some 
punkin,  I  understand,  over  in  the  ol'  country — a 
earl,  or  a  baronite,  or  somethin'  like  that." 

The  two  were  standing  together,  looking  at  the 
key,  which  was  in  Ernie's  hands,  when  their  ears 
were  greeted  by  a  masculine  humming,  the  burden 
of  which  seemed  to  be  that  the  flowers  that  bloom 
in  the  spring,  tra  la,  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
case,  tra  la.  They  turned  about  and  saw  a  tall, 
remarkably  well-built  figure,  more  familiar  by  sight 
to  Ernie  from  his  numerous  calls  at  a  certain  Islay 
farm-house  than  it  was  to  Henry,  although  the  latter 
immediately  identified  it. 

"Well,  I'll  be  hamstrung,"  said  the  philosopher 
of  Islay,  cordially  and  sweepingly  saluting,  "if  it 
ain't  our  old  feller-bum,  Ashton,  School-teacher! 
How  the  blazes  are  you,  English?  We  wasn't  ex- 
pectin'  you,  but  we're  glad  you  come.  Three  ain't  too 
big  a  crowd  as  long  as  they're  all  he-ones,  eh?  We 
was  just  goin'  for  a  walk,  the  School-teacher  an'  me." 

"What's  that  you  bally  buckaroos  have  there?" 
inquired  Ashton,  as,  without  invitation,  he  stepped 
close  and  peered  at  the  key  in  Ernie's  palm.  "Ah, 
English  make.  Jove!  that's  interesting,  you  know. 
Who's  the  owner?" 

"It  belongs,"  said  Henry,  "to  the  party  we're 
a-goin'  to  call  on." 

"Well,  how  does  it  happen,"  said  Ashton,  looking 
from  one  to  the  other,  and  wagging  his  finger  at 
each  in  turn,  "that  you  two  jolly  rahscals  have  the 

208 


HOMESTEAD  INSANITY 

Johnnie's  key,  if  he's  at  home?  I  hope,  gentlemen, 
this  isn't  a  housebreaking  expedition.  If  it  is,  you 
may  count  me  out  straightaway.  A  beggar's  got  to 
draw  the  line  somewhere,  you  know.  I  would  much 
rather  walk  on  blissfully  by  me  solitary  self,  and  sit 
somewhere  on  the  rocks  and  sing,  and  watch  the 
shepherds — ah — ah — "  Ashton,  in  lieu  of  finishing 
his  sentence,  appended  an  airy  sweep  of  his  fingers, 
as  though  he  were  running  them  across  the  keyboard 
of  an  invisible  piano. 

"Are  we  supposed  to  laugh  at  that,  or  what?" 
said  Ernie  Bedford,  sotto  voce,  from  his  position 
slightly  behind  Henry.  "I  can't  make  head  or 
tail  of  these  blamed  Englishmen,  sometimes." 

"He  means  the  same  as  what  you  would  if  you 
said,  like  you  was  goin'  to  awhile  back,  'This  is  one 
son  of  a  moose  of  a  fine  day,  but  how  am  I  goin' 
to  put  in  the  time?'"  observed  Henry;  then,  turn 
ing  to  Ashton,  he  said,  whacking  the  latter  soundly 
on  his  shapely  shirted  back:  "You'll  set  on  the  rocks 
an'  sing,  I  bet,  old  horse,  if  Bill's  left  any  of  that 
English  fire-water  of  his  kickin'  around  over  there. 
We  ain't  goin'  to  touch  any  of  Bill's  things,  but 
whisky's  public  property,  anywheres.  Bill  was  a 
good  old  sport,  an'  that's  what  he  always  said  him 
self,  when  he  hadn't  one  o'  them  voylent  fits  o'  his 
on.  I've  often  set  in  with  old  Bill,  over  there. 
Even  when  he  was  rippin'  around  sway-backed,  with 
his  ha'r  on  end,  liftin'  his  feet  cl'ar  to  his  crotch 
and  play  in'  catch  with  a  loaded  revolver  and  an  open 
jack-knife,  he  always  knew  me — and  he'd  ca'm  down 
right  away  when  I  come  into  his  shanty." 

209 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

"Do  you  know,  Nicol,"  said  Ashton,  who  had 
been  standing,  with  his  head  on  one  side  and  his 
hands  shoved  lightly  into  his  pockets,  in  an  attitude 
of  deep  interest,  "that  you  are  one  of  the  most 
entertaining,  and  at  the  same  time  tantalizing, 
beggars  I  ever  met  in  my  life.  Now,  in  the  name  of 
all  that's  curious  and  quaint,  won't  you  please  tell 
me  who  this  Bill  gentleman  is,  and  why  he  should 
be  going  around  with  his  hair  on  end  and  all  the 
rest  of  it?  It  sounds  a  bit  like  'Hamlet,'  except  that 
it's  much  more  mystifying." 

"Well,"  said  Henry,  "let's  get  started  across  to'rd 
Bill's,  and  I  can  tell  you  on  the  way.  I  b'en  able 
to  talk  and  walk  at  the  same  time  ever  since  I  was 
a  little  shaver." 

The  three  turned  into  the  trail  leading  out  through 
a  gap  in  the  poplar-grove,  emerging  on  the  top  of  a 
hillock  from  which  they  could  see  the  road  for  miles, 
cut  by  interposing  valleys  into  strips  that  seemed 
to  lie  detached  upon  the  breasts  of  the  little  hills. 

"You  see  them  two  long  chunks  o'  bluff,  with  a 
little  gap  between,  off  there  to  the  northwest?"  in 
quired  Henry  Nicol,  pointing  with  a  knotty  fore 
finger.  "Well,  thon  gap's  where  the  trail  cuts 
through,  runnin'  into  Bill's  place.  It's  a  little  better 
than  three  mile  from  here.  Ready — go!" 

With  this  Henry  dropped  into  a  long,  lurching 
stride,  his  overalls  swishing  with  a  kind  of  whistling 
sound  as  he  moved  along  the  deep  wheel-rut.  Pres 
ently,  as  this  brushing  noise  grew  more  audible, 
Henry  stooped  and  turned  up  the  ends  of  his 
trousers  in  a  broad  cuff. 

210 


HOMESTEAD  INSANITY 

"I  interfere,  in  this  narra  wheel-mark,"  he  ob 
served,  staidly,  as  he  turned  each  gray  sock  up  over 
the  adjoining  trousers  leg  to  hold  it  tight.  "I'll  wear 
my  pants  all  out  an'  come  back  lookin'  like  that 
picture  o'  Robinson  Crusoe  in  young  Geordie's 
Christmas  book." 

"Jove!  that's  a  jolly  good  idear!"  said  Ashton, 
turning  up  his  trousers  similarly;  "unconventional, 
but  economical — what?" 

The  teacher,  after  surveying  the  other  two  a 
moment,  imitated  the  prevailing  fashion;  and  the 
three,  thus  liveried  alike,  trudged  on,  with  Henry 
as  pace-maker. 

"Well,  now,  Nicol,"  reminded  Ashton,  presently, 
"what  about  our  prospective  host  and  his  history?" 

"Well,"  said  Henry,  "to  start  off  with,  our  pros 
pective  host  ain't  at  home;  that's  why  we  got  the 
key.  Bill's  in  the  booby-hatch." 

"I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  translate,"  said  Ashton. 
"In  the  what?" 

'  *  The  crazy-house, ' '  said  Henry.  ' '  Well,  as  I  men 
tioned  to  the  school-teacher  awhile  back,  ol'  Bill 
he  was  some  punkin  in  the  old  country,  as  he  called 
it.  You  ought  to  heard  him  play  his  banjo — though 
occasionally  he'd  go  off  into  that  high-class  stuff 
that  ain't  no  thin'  but  wrist-curlin'  and  fancy-prancy 
finger-motions.  I  b'lieve  somebody  told  me  once 
that  Bill  was  a  earl,  or  a  earl's  younger  son,  or  some 
darn'  thing.  He's  got  a  lot  of  old  steamer-trunks 
over  there,  full  o'  good  clothes  he  never  wore.  I 
guess  he  forgot  they  was  there — ol'  Bill.  He  come 
here,  they  say,  long  before  there  was  any  railroad 

2H 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

through  this  country,  and  settled  away  out  there, 
all  by  himself.  Hunt  ain't  his  real  name;  he  told 
a  fellow  once  that  he'd  named  himself  Hunt  because 
he'd  b'en  a-huntin'  the  best  part  of  his  life  for  some 
one  he  never  found.  The  fellow  Bill  was  talkin'  to 
told  me  afterward  that  he  was  blamed  glad  he  wasn't 
the  'some  one'  Bill  was  lookin'  for,  by  the  way  ol' 
Bill  brussled  up  when  he  mentioned  the  way  he 
come  to  name  himself  "Hunt." 

Ernie  Bedford,  glancing  toward  Ashton,  noted 
that  the  latter's  eyes  had  dilated  a  little  as  he 
listened. 

"Old-timers  say  he  was  always  a  kind  of  a  myst'ry, 
Bill,"  Henry  continued.  "He  never  had  a  word  to 
say  to  nobody,  no  time,  them  days,  except  when  he'd 
come  into  the  old  Hudson  Bay  post  to  buy  groc'ries. 
Then  he'd  hold  his  head  up,  an'  talk  in  the  top  of 
his  mouth,  an'  not  let  out  a  word  that  he  didn't 
have  to,  they  say.  He  wasn't  crazy  in  them  days; 
but  he  soon  got  that  way,  livin'  out  there  all  by 
himself — an'  them  Harrisons,  after  Harrisons  settled 
acrost  yonder,  didn't  help  matters  much.  Macki 
naw!  Bill  hated  them  young  devils;  an'  nobody 
blamed  him  much  for  that.  It's  a  wonder  he  didn't 
shoot  one  of  'em.n 

The  sun  had  moved  well  up  overhead  when  the 
three  reached  the  ravine  which  ran  like  a  dry  moat 
around  the  solitary  farmstead.  On  the  farther  side 
of  the  ravine  was  a  fine  headland,  crowned  with  a 
poplar-grove.  This  grove  was  divided,  at  the  point 
where  the  trail  went  through,  by  a  gap  some  sixty 
feet  wide,  with  two  tall  balm-of-Gilead  trees  forming 

212 


HOMESTEAD  INSANITY 

a  kind  of  natural  gateway.  The  homesteader  had 
chosen  his  farm  site  with  taste,  at  any  rate. 

"I  dunno  what  per  cent,  of  a  grade  this  here  is," 
said  Henry  Nicol,  as  they  climbed  the  bluff;  "but 
I  wisht  it  wasn't  so  much.  Don't  you,  School 
teacher?  I  know  Ashton  there  don't  mind." 

"Chaffing  old  sweep,"  panted  Ashton. 

The  road  had  begun  to  level  again  at  the  top  of 
the  hill  as  the  pedestrians  reached  the  point  where 
they  could  see  through  the  woody  gap,  first  an  ag 
gressive-looking  old  pump,  with  the  handle  sticking 
up  in  the  air;  next,  an  empty  straw-roofed  stable, with 
door  swinging  wide,  centering  a  little  pathetic  assem 
bly  of  rusted  farm  implements  standing  amid  the  long 
grass ;  and  finally,  a  fair-sized  sod  shanty,  with  "lamb's- 
quarter"  growing  out  of  the  thatch  on  the  roof. 

"Well,"  said  Henry,  breaking  a  short  silence,  which 
had  been  occasioned  by  the  curious  staring-about  of 
the  other  two  as  they  approached  this  place  of  deso 
lation  and  mystery,  "here  we  are  at  Win'sor  Castle." 
He  thrust  the  queer  key,  after  some  fumbling,  into 
the  lock. 

"Bill  hadn't  a  very  straight  eye,"  he  remarked, 
"when  he  put  on  that  lock.  He's  got  it  about  half 
an  inch  below  the  top  end  of  the  keyhole.  Maybe 
he  put  it  on  right,  only  it's  gettin'  tired  a-hangin' 
on.  Twenty-odd  years  is  a  long  time,  boys." 

The  door,  after  a  couple  of  vigorous  pushes,  swung 
open.  A  musty  smell,  like  that  of  a  second-hand- 
clothes  shop,  greeted  the  nostrils  of  the  other  two  as 
they  crowded  up  and  peered  over  Henry's  shoulders. 

They  saw  a  dim  interior,  crossed  by  a  band  of 
J5  213 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

sunlight  from  the  one  small  window  on  the  east  side; 
piles  of  English  papers  with  broad  eight-column 
sheets  and  plain-lettered  head-lines;  fowling-pieces, 
spurs,  tall  boots,  an  English  riding-saddle  with 
riding-crop  leaning  against  it,  magazines,  cigarette- 
boxes,  a  banjo,  and  a  pile  of  tattered  music.  In  the 
center  of  the  room,  on  a  small  table  covered  with  a 
red  cloth  which  was  burnt  full  of  small  holes,  pre 
sumably  by  cigarette  ends,  stood  part  of  a  fine  cut- 
glass  drinking  set — decanter  and  glasses — two  of 
the  glasses  being  on  the  table  and  the  other  four  on 
a  shelf  supported  by  wooden  pegs  driven  into  the 
braces  of  the  sod  wall.  On  the  shelf  stood  also  a 
tall  bottle  with  an  English  label. 

"I  bags  the  bottle,"  said  Ashton,  striving  to  make 
an  intensely  eager  tone  playful  as  he  squirmed  past 
Henry  and  crossed  the  room  to  the  shelf. 

"All  right,'*  said  Henry,  with  a  wink  at  Ernie 
Bedford,  "you  can  bag  the  bottle,  if  you  want  to. 
The  school-teacher  here  an'  me  will  gunny-sack  the 
decanter  on  the  table,  though." 

"Sold!"  exclaimed  Ashton,  as  he  upended  the 
bottle.  "Shabby  trick  that,  Nicol,  my  boy — most 
disreputable  of  you." 

"I  knew,  you  see,  that  Bill  always  kept  'er  handy," 
remarked  Henry,  complacently,  as  he  tore  a  piece 
of  newspaper  and  rubbed  the  two  months'  dust  out 
of  three  of  the  glasses  from  the  shelf;  "but  I  guess 
me  an'  the  teacher  can  spare  you  a  drop  of  ours,  if 
you  put  up  the  cigars,  Ashton." 

"None  for  me,"  said  Ernie.  "You  fellows  split 
what's  there  between  you,  if  you  want  to." 

214 


HOMESTEAD  INSANITY 

"Don't  be  a  bally  stand-out,  Bedford,"  said  Ash- 
ton,  as  he  lifted  his  glass. 

" That's  all  right,"  said  Henry  Nicol,  as  he  raised 
his.  "Don't  coax  the  lad,  English — he's  better 
without  it.  Well,  here's  lookin',  Ashie,  you  ol' 
son  of  a  moose!" 

The  two  clinked  their  glasses  and  emptied  them. 

"Jolly  little  to  walk  three  miles  for,"  said  Ashton. 
"Is  that  the  lot,  Nicol?" 

"Dry  as  a  book  on  hog-doctorin',"  said  Henry, 
holding  up  the  decanter  and  spanking  it  significantly 
on  the  bottom.  "Not  much,  but  it  never  cost  us 
nothin'.  I  bet  that's  the  best  drink  you  ever  had 
for  the  price,  English.  Well,  who-all's  goin'  to  set 
down  an'  have  a  little  smoke  before  we  start  back, 
shipmates?" 

"Ah!"  said  Ashton,  as  he  pulled  the  cover  off  a 
tin  box  on  the  table.  "Cigarettes!  What  brand, 
I  wonder?" 

He  examined  the  little  black-lettered  label  on  the 
side  of  the  cigarette  he  held.  As  he  did  so  Ernie, 
who  happened  to  be  watching  him  casually  at  the 
time,  had  his  full  interest  suddenly  attracted  and 
held  by  the  change  which  came  over  the  Englishman's 
face.  For  a  moment  he  looked  another  man. 

"This — er — Hunt  is,  you  say,  in  the  asylum  now?" 
he  asked,  presently,  his  voice,  which  held  a  strained 
note,  coming  through  a  cloud  of  smoke  that  was 
the  merging  of  a  series  of  jerky,  nervous  ejections. 

"He  was  headed  for  there  two  months  ago,  with 
Constable  Neil  Collingwood's  hand  on  the  scruff  of 
his  neck — poor  ol'  Bill,"  responded  Henry  Nicol, 

215 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

who  had  missed  the  transition  in  Ashton's  face. 
"I  guess  there  ain't  any  reasonable  doubt  he  got 
where  he  was  goin',  for  Neil's  like  one  o'  these  here 
bulldogs — he  never  lets  go  till  he's  through." 

"  Could  you  describe — in  a  way — what  the  beg 
gar  looked  like?"  came  Ashton's  voice  again,  after 
a  moment,  through  the  smoke- wall  he  had  raised. 

"Like  an  old  tom-cat,"  said  Henry;  "whiskert 
so's  he'd  hardly  room  to  see." 

There  were  no  more  questions  from  the  other  side 
of  the  table;  but  Ernie,  glancing  at  Ashton's  face 
during  the  intervals  in  which  it  was  visible  through 
the  Scotch  mist  of  his  dense  smoking,  saw  the  Eng 
lishman's  eyes  wandering  curiously  from  one  to  the 
other  of  the  articles  in  the  room. 

That  evening,  Ashton,  lying  with  his  pipe  and 
magazine  in  the  Morton  wheat-bin,  drew  out  from 
his  vest  pocket  and  dangled  before  him  contem 
platively — the  key  to  the  cabin  of  "old  Bill  Hunt" 
of  the  "homestead  insanity." 

"Possession's  nine  points  of  the  law,  by  Jove!" 
he  muttered,  complacently.  "However,  I  shall  take 
it  back  and  tell  Nicol  I  found  it,  after  I  have  a  glance 
through  the  things  in  that  hut — at  leisure  and  undis 
turbed.  Surely  this — this  so-called  Hunt  couldn't 
have  been — couldn't  have  been — Lonsdale?" 


XVI 

SIOUX   BEN   INSPECTS   ISLAY   SCHOOL 

IT  was  a  bright  Monday  morning.  Islay  school 
had  been  called  about  half  an  hour.  The  room 
was  as  quiet  as  a  roomful  of  youngsters,  even  well- 
disciplined  youngsters,  ever  is — that  is  to  say,  it 
was  still  except  for  the  humming  of  lessons  being 
prepared  in  an  unconscious  undertone;  the  indus 
trious  scratch  and  tick-tack  of  slate-pencils  aiding 
young  brains  in  casting  up  by  units  (Ernie  had  not 
been  able,  in  spite  of  much  drilling,  to  wholly  train 
pupils,  whose  parents  did  the  opposite,  to  think  in 
whole  numbers  when  adding) ;  the  occasional  squib- 
bing  of  an  excited  whisper  about  something,  general 
ly  from  one  of  the  six-year-olds;  and  the  hen- 
drinking  ululation  of  Art  Morgan  going  over  the 
multiplication  table.  (If  Art  was  confronted,  for 
instance,  with  the  task  of  ascertaining  seven  times 
eight,  he  could  never  remember  offhand  what  it  was 
— as  few  who  are  handicapped  with  that  dreadful 
horse-blanket  over  intelligence,  the  multiplication 
table,  ever  can — but  had  to  go  back  to  seven  times 
one  and  run  off  the  whole  spool  till  he  reached  the 
combination  he  wanted.) 

217 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Outside  the  school-house,  the  Wheat-land  summer, 
which  had  reached  the  seasonal  stage  of  early  August, 
was  beginning  to  show  some  of  the  same  signs  of 
wear  and  weathering  that  the  country  people  do 
when  they  have  passed  their  prime.  The  grass, 
that  had  presented  such  a  rich  and  uniform  green  in 
June,  was  now  a  tawny  color,  threaded  and  inter- 
loomed  with  gray;  the  foliage  displayed  yellow 
touches — not  the  bright,  drained  yellow  of  after- 
frost,  but  a  dull  burnt-clay  hue  like  the  face  of  a 
sun-baked  farmer  of  sixty;  the  slow,  hot  breeze 
moved  carelessly,  like  a  yawn-breath  of  weariness. 

Ernie,  thinking  along  this  line  as  he  leaned  his 
elbow  on  the  window-sill  during  a  moment  of  leisure, 
developed  the  thing  slightly  further — mentally  com 
paring  the  dandelion-patches  on  the  prairie  to  soft- 
boiled  eggs  spilled  by  a  palsied  hand  on  the  beard  of 
an  old  man.  He  was  petting  this  conceit  with  a 
half -smile  at  his  own  gumption  in  thinking  it  up 
when  his  attention  was  drawn  back  to  his  pupils 
by  a  sudden  storm  of  whispering,  broken  with  little 
liquid  gigglings.  Every  eye  in  the  room  was  look 
ing  his  way;  and  every  face,  even  to  the  sober  but 
not  now  rebellious  one  of  Dave  Morton,  bore  a  grin. 

"Silence  in  the  room!"  said  the  teacher,  sharply. 
"What  does  this  disturbance  mean?" 

Whatever  it  meant,  the  disturbance  continued, 
commencing  now  to  be  broken  by  audible  chuck- 
lings  and  explosions  from  behind  hands  vainly 
pressed  against  mouths;  and  presently  Ernie  became 
aware  that  the  eyes  were  not  looking  at  him,  but 
past  him — toward  the  doorway  at  his  back. 

218 


SIOUX  BEN 

He  had  not  up  to  this  moment  noticed  the  rugged 
shadow-blot  on  the  floor  between  his  feet:  but,  see 
ing  it  now,  he  swung  about. 

A  light  puff  of  wind,  coming  past  the  figure  that 
filled  the  oblong  of  the  door  even  to  the  top  of  its 
frame,  brought  to  Ernie's  nostrils  the  blended  aroma 
of  wood  smoke,  nicotine,  buckskin,  and  all  char 
acteristic  wild  pungencies  of  camp  and  trail.  With 
these  effluences  wrapping  him,  and  young  Islay  be 
hind  him  removing  the  lid  from  its  sensations  in 
a  clamor  like  a  small  cyclone,  Ernie  Bedford  looked 
into  the  sun-blackened  visage  and  placidly  narrowed 
eyes  of  Sioux  Ben  Sun  Cloud. 

Whatever  his  tribal  lineage,  Sioux  Ben  was,  in 
appearance  at  least,  from  the  beaded  toes  of  his 
moccasins  all  the  way  up  his  six  feet  two  of  wire- 
cable  bone  and  sinew  to  his  brown-bracketed  cheeks 
and  the  straight-stroked  pyrography  of  his  hair,  a 
chief  of  chieftains.  To-day,  however,  he  was  not 
clad  in  state — at  least,  according  to  the  popular 
notion  of  Indian  state.  From  the  waist  downward 
he  was  habited  in  a  pair  of  vast  bright-blue  overalls ; 
from  the  waist  upward,  in  a  red-flannel  shirt  over 
the  shoulders  of  which  were  drawn  suspender  straps 
striped  yellow  and  black  and  strong  enough  to  hold 
a  team  of  horses.  A  black  felt  hat,  its  high  crown 
banded  with  a  bright-colored  cord,  its  brim  broad 
and  curled  at  the  edges,  had  been,  as  a  concession 
to  white  man  ways,  removed,  and  was  held  up  across 
his  chest  by  two  great  smoked  hams  of  hands. 

"Good  day,"  said  Ernie  Bedford  to  this  majestic 
presence,  with  a  tinge  of  awe.  "Have  a  chair." 

219 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Sioux  Ben  removed  one  hand  from  his  hat-brim, 
bent  his  head  down,  and  touched  the  end  of  his 
auditory  organ,  which  was  in  size  and  shape  like  a 
generous  piece  of  liver,  in  slow  deprecation. 

"Ear  bad,"  he  said,  with  a  thunderous  huskiness. 

"Have  a  chair,"  repeated  Ernie,  in  a  roar  that, 
owing  to  a  light  cold  in  his  throat,  ended  in  a  kind 
of  squeal.  "Here!"  To  help  Sioux  Ben's  compre 
hension,  he  set  out,  as  he  spoke,  his  own  official 
chair  from  behind  its  table. 

"Ou  aye!"  said  Sioux  Ben,  who  had  learned  his 
first  English  from  a  Scotchman.  "Chair  verra  good. 
You're  quite  welcome." 

He  doubled  up  his  long  figure  with  a  dignified 
slowness,  sat  down,  and  put  his  hat  on  the  floor 
underneath  the  chair. 

Sioux  Ben  was  called  by  the  pioneers  of  Islay 
(who,  never  having  read  Tennyson,  doubtless  thought 
they  were  the  originators  of  the  title)  the  Hero  of  a 
Hundred  Fights.  If  they  had  been  his  contempo 
raries  in  the  days  when  he  was  cutting  a  swath 
through  everything  in  the  pale-face-invader  line, 
they  would  doubtless  have  termed  him  "that  in 
fernal  old  nitchie"  (a  word  popularly  supposed  to 
be  Indian  for  "Indian"  and  so  applied  intertribally 
in  Wheat-land) ;  but,  Sioux  Ben  being  so  old  that  his 
bay-leaves  had  commenced  to  fade  before  any  of 
even  the  elder  Islayanders  were  so  much  as  born, 
his  record  had  enough  of  the  glamour  of  antiquity 
to  make  him  the  subject  of  honorable  exaggeration. 
One  story  had  it  that  he  had  been  to  Europe  a  year 
or  two  before  Waterloo,  had  met  Napoleon  Bona- 

22Q 


SIOUX  BEN 

parte,  and  had  presented  him  with  a  package  of  "kin- 
nikinnick"  (a  dreadful  compound,  smoked  by  the 
Indians  before  they  heard  about  tobacco) .  The  foun 
dation  for  this  legend  was,  however,  somewhat  elu 
sive,  and  those  who  delved  into  the  history  of  that 
time  thought  the  legendeer  must  have  got  Sioux  Ben 
mixed  up  with  Toussaint  1' Overture  (although  the 
only  occasion  upon  which  the  latter  gentleman  met 
Napoleon  was  when  he  was  wearing  French  hand 
cuffs). 

Ernie  and  Henry  Nicol  had  met  the  old  chief  one 
day,  riding  sidewise  on  a  native  pony  ahead  of  an  equi 
page  driven  by  the  oldest,  homeliest  squaw  in  North 
American.  "He  can't  get  a  cayuse  to  fit  him," 
Henry  had  said,  "unless  they  could  train  one  to 
walk  on  stilts;  so  he  sets  on  sideways  like  that 
to  keep  the  grass  from  wearin'  out  his  moccasins. 
He's  about  a  hundred  an'  fifty  years  old,  they  say, 
and  still  growin'." 

By  the  time  Sioux  Ben  had  settled  himself  in  the 
teacher's  chair  the  school-room  was  so  wrought  up 
that  Ernie,  although  motioning  peremptorily  with 
his  hand  toward  Art  Morgan  and  Roscoe  Boyd,  who 
were  in  such  a  tremendous  state  of  excitement  that 
they  were  catapulting  each  other  alternately  off 
the  opposite  ends  of  the  bench  they  occupied,  de 
cided  that  it  would  be  useless  and  undiplomatic  to 
insist  on  more  than  a  semblance  of  order  as  long 
as  his  odd  caller  remained. 

The  old  native  sat  still  for  a  moment,  his  eyes, 
amid  their  thousand  wrinkles,  moving  glisteningly 
back  and  forth  from  one  side  of  the  room  to  the 

221 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

other.     Finally  he  pointed  to  Dave,  turned  to  the 
teacher,  and  said : 

"Ye  ken  yon  lad.  Verra  fine,  verra  fine.  Plenty 
porridge,  plenty  scones,  make  him,  eh?  Michty 
good.  Ou  aye — ou  aye!" 

The  titter  which  greeted  this  was  quite  over- 
crowned  by  a  violent  explosion  of  merriment  from 
the  vicinity  of  Roscoe  Boyd.  The  noise  came  chiefly 
from  Art  Morgan,  who,  with  his  head  laid  back  and 
contorted  and  his  heels  spasmodically  drumming  the 
floor,  looked  like  some  one  dying. 
•  "Come,  come,  Art!'*  said  the  teacher,  sternly. 
"What's  this  all  about?'1 

"He — hee — hee!"  said  the  young  gentleman  ad 
dressed,  unable  to  straighten  up.  "Hee — hee — 
hee-ee!" 

"Well?"  said  Ernie,  his  hand  moving  with  an 
ominous  suggestiveness  toward  the  drawer  of  the 
preceptorial  table,  in  which  a  long-unused  rubber 
strap  curled  dependably. 

"He — he's  looking  like  him!"  gagged  Art  Mor 
gan  at  length,  pointing  weakly  at  Roscoe,  whose 
head  was  lowered  under  the  edge  of  the  desk. 

Ernie  rightly  interpreted  this  to  mean  that  Ros 
coe 's  mobile  features  were,  in  their  shelter,  molded 
into  an  animated  cartoon  of  Sioux  Ben's  millennial 
visage.  He  took  a  step  toward  the  offender,  but 
was  stopped  dead  by  a  brown  hand  which  dropped 
on  his  shoulder  like  a  meat -hook. 

"Plenty  laugh-out-loud,  plenty  jauk,  make  young- 
lad,  young-lassie,  grow,"  said  the  voice  of  Sioux  Ben 
Sun  Cloud,  rising  in  his  throat  with  a  buzzing  and 

222 


SIOUX  BEN 

whirring  like  the  works  of  an  old  eight-day  clock 
about  to  strike  the  hour.  He  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Hegh,  little-man  Schoolmaster,"  he  proposed, 
gathering  up  his  chin  and  dropping  it,  alternately, 
exactly  like  a  very  old  man  of  the  dominant  race, 
"my  bairns — three — burn  up,  in  tepee,  seventy  year 
ago.  Bad  weather;  fire  from  the  sky.  I  come  out 
of  bush — tepee,  horses,  wee-colts,  litlins,  all  gone. 
Man,  it  was  awfu'.  I  live  and  learn — maybe  one 
hundred  years.  Verra  good.  I  talk  now  to  other 
bairns — plenty  young-lad,  plenty  wee-lass — all  over 
the  country.  Tell  'em  what's  what.  I  bide  wi' 
you  ten  minutes  by  the  clock.  Then — hoot,  mon; 
come  awa';  time's  up,  I  say.  Verra  good." 

With  this  personally  negotiated  and  self-con 
cluded  agreement  Sioux  Ben  Sun  Cloud,  turning  tow 
ard  the  class-room,  erected  his  sapling-straight  old 
spine  until  it  was  almost  tilted  backward.  In  this 
attitude  he  commenced  an  address  which,  boiled 
down  to  its  two  main  arguments,  was  to  the  effect 
that  fighting  was  "na  good,"  and  that  "young-lads" 
must  work  hard  and  "make  money,"  this  last  being 
the  purpose  and  aim  of  all  human  endeavor — which 
would  seem  to  indicate  that  Sioux  Ben  had  learned 
more  than  his  idiom  from  those  remote  Caledonians 
who  had  initiated  him  into  the  many-faceted  white 
man's  tongue. 

Perhaps  some  of  those,  his  contemporaries,  might 
have  marveled  if  they  could  have  heard  a  man  who, 
if  rumor  and  anecdote  were  to  be  believed,  must  have 
flashed  along  the  horizon  of  the  stormy  aforetime  be 
girt  and  even  kilted  with  the  scalps  of  those  who 

223 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

had  disagreed  with  him,  telling  the  youngsters  of  a 
later  generation  that  fighting  was  "na  good." 

Whether  it  was  that  Sioux  Ben  had  been  so  suc 
cessful  in  impressing  his  lessons  of  a  long  life  upon 
the  young  minds  of  Ernie's  pupils  that  he  had  tem 
porarily  filled  their  heads  to  the  exclusion  of  every 
thing  else,  or  whether  it  was  that  they  had  the  im 
pression  he  intended  to  return  in  the  afternoon  with 
his  tomahawk  and  scalping-knife  and  give  them  an 
interesting  practical  demonstration  of  his  more 
romantic  side,  the  fact  remains  that  Ernie  Bedford 
failed  so  completely  in  the  next  quarter-hour  to 
fix  their  minds  on  every-day  scholastic  matters  that 
he  dismissed  them  for  recess  at  10.15  instead  of  the 
customary  10.45. 

But  the  most  personally  interesting  note  of  the 
day,  to  Ernie,  in  connection  with  Sun  Cloud's  visit, 
was  struck  when,  during  the  noon  hour,  Dave  Mor 
ton,  in  a  moment  or  two  of  diffident  conversation 
with  the  teacher,  mentioned  that  it  was  not  so  long 
since  the  old  warrior,  after  sitting  for  a  time  in  the 
Morton  kitchen  and  watching  Clara  at  work,  had 
gone  to  Adam  and  offered  to  join  with  Clara's  in 
marriage  the  honorable  scorched-paper  paw  of  the 
Hero  of  a  Hundred  Fights,  and  to  bestow  upon  the 
father  as  an  espousal  gift  a  couple  of  beautiful 
beaver-skins ! 


XVII 

THE    LAYING   AWAY    OF   JAMES   TANTALUS    DOVER 

<  < 

ARE  you  all  ready,  School-teacher?"  inquired 
Henry  Nicol,  shoving  his  head  in  through  the 
open  window  of  the  Kernaghan  living-room,  where 
Ernie  Bedford  sat  at  work  on  a  set  of  examination 
papers  with  which  he  intended  to  sound  the  erudition 
of  the  upper  four  grades  at  Islay  school.  ''Whoa, 
there,  you  oneasy  son  of  a  moose!  Commere  to 
me!"  The  imperative  part  of  Henry  Nicol's  ut 
terance  was  not  addressed  to  Ernie,  but  to  Punch, 
the  black  buggy-pony,  who  was  trying  to  pull 
Henry's  arm  out  by  the  roots  with  the  bridle-rein. 
The  buggy,  firmly  attached  to  Punch  by  Mr.  Ker- 
naghan's  Sunday-best  harness,  edged  to  and  fro 
with  the  pony's  fidgeting.  Its  tidy  raised  top,  new- 
wiped  with  a  cloth  soaked  in  coal-oil,  cast  a  shadow 
across  the  window. 

"Just  finished,"  rejoined  Ernie,  rolling  up  the 
loose  papers  and  sticking  them  away  behind  the 
clock  on  the  shelf.  "It  seems  more  like  Sunday 
than  Saturday,  doesn't  it,  Henry.  .  .  .  Poor  old 
Jim!" 

Henry  did  not  respond  until  the  two  had  climbed 
225 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

into  the  vehicle  and  were  purring  away  lightly  and 
smoothly  along  the  trail  leading  toward  John  Beam- 
ish's  place.  Then  he  said,  soberly:  "I've  knew 
him  ever  sence  I  struck  this  here  settlement,  School 
teacher.  If  I  had  a  dollar  for  every  time  Jim's 
stood  me  the  cigars  at  the  Commercial,  I'd  be 
livin'  on  the  interest  o'  my  money  an'  havin'  a 
whale  of  a  time.  Jim  he  could  have  stood  'most 
anything  you'd  get  across  a  bar,  an'  kept  smart  an' 
sassy  till  he  was  about  eighty,  I  bet.  But  gopher 
poison — Mackinaw !" 

"Beamish  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to 
have  that  strychnine  standing  around  in  bottles 
without  labels,"  Ernie  put  in. 

"The  label  wouldn't  'a*  made  a  great  pile  o'  dif 
ference,"  said  Henry,  scraping  a  little  overlooked 
spot  of  mud  off  the  dashboard  with  his  thumb-nail. 
"Jim  he  thought  every  bottle  that  shape  was  his 
friend,  an*  he'd  never  have  bothered  to  look  at  no 
label.  No,  sir,  you  couldn't  have  warned  him  away 
from  the  neck  of  an  ol'  rye-bottle  with  a  skull  an7 
crossbones  thirty  foot  high.  Ol'  Jim!" 

"Did  he  drink  it  all?"  inquired  Ernie,  screwing 
up  his  face  a  little  at  the  idea. 

"Every  last  sip,  School-teacher — so  Jack  Beam 
ish  told  me,"  answered  Henry,  evenly.  "It  was  one 
o'  his  driest  days — though  I  guess  pritty  near  every 
day  was  a  dry  day  with  Jim.  He'd  held  in  for 
more  'n  a  month,  you  see,  an*  on  the  Saturday  he 
was  goin'  to  tell  Jack  to  go  to — " 

"It's  a  wonder  a  close  man  like  Beamish  would 
let  him  go  off  into  town  like  that,  so  many  times, 

226 


LAYING  HIM  AWAY 

and  keep  on  paying  his  wages  during  these — these 
vacations,"  observed  Ernie  Bedford. 

Henry  looked  around  at  the  teacher  with  a  kind 
of  stare.  "Keep  on  payin'  him?  School-teacher, 
I  don't  want  to  be  oncomplimentary ;  but  you  don't 
surely  mean  to  tell  me  you  think  Jack  Beamish 
paid  him  for  them  days  he  was  off,  do  you?'* 

"Well,  hardly,  I  suppose,"  admitted  Ernie,  a 
little  abashed. 

"Hardly!"  ejaculated  Henry  Nicol.  "Hardly, 
did  I  onderstand  you  to  say?  School-teacher,  that 
son  of  a  moose  docked  ol'  Jim  from  the  minute  he 
left  go  o'  his  plow-handles  till  the  minute  he  took 
aholt  of  them  agen.  He  figured  it  out  to  the  second 
— to  the  half  a  cent — an',  what's  more,  he'd  only 
give  Jim  half-time  for  the  first  day  on  agen.  He 
would  claim  Jim  was  kind  o'  wabbly-like,  an'  only 
worth  half-money  for  that  first  day,  you  see.  But 
he'd  workol'  Jim  till  sundown,  just  the  same;  and  ol' 
Jim  he'd  plow  as  much  land,  too,  that  half-time  day, 
as  if  he  hadn't  had  a  snort  for  two  years.  Why, 
Jack  he  made  money  out  o'  them  times  Jim  went  on 
the  toot;  that's  why  he'd  let  him  go.  You'd  have 
to  get  up  early  in  the  morning  to  get  ahead  o'  thon 
Jack  Beamish,  School-teacher." 

"What  wages  did  Jim  get?"  interpolated  Ernie, 
looking  at  the  backs  of  his  finger-nails  (a  habit  he  had 
unconsciously  caught  along  with  other  mannerisms 
from  the  normal-school  lecturer  who  had  involun 
tarily  given  Ernie  Bedford  the  mode,  while  he  was  de 
signedly  imparting  to  him  the  method,  of  pedagogy). 

"Well,"  answered  Henry,  "you  an'  me  both  knew 
227 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Jim,  didn't  we,  School-teacher?  An'  we  both  know 
Jack,  don't  we?  So  I  don't  see  why  Jim's  pay 
should  be  no  secret.  Jack  give  him  twenty  dollars 
a  month  in  summer,  an1  ten  in  winter  when  he 
wasn't  so  dry — ol'  Jim!'* 

Henry  said  "ol*  Jim"  with  the  same  cadence  of 
conventional  homage  to  the  departed  that  the 
mourner  in  higher  circles  might  have  used  in  saying 
"poor  James." 

"Why,  that's  only  about  half -pay,  as  farm  wages 
run  now,  isn't  it?"  Ernie  commented.  "Why 
didn't  Jim  go  and  work  for  somebody  who  would 
pay  him  decent  wages?" 

"You  think  you  got  me  there,  don't  you,  School 
teacher?"  Henry  answered,  playfully.  "Well,  I  can 
explain  that  to  you,  too,  in  about  a  half  a  minute. 
Jim  knew  Jack  was  sure  pay,  an'  he  knew  that  he 
could  get  his  time  whenever  he  wanted  it.  He'd 
ruther  get  twenty  for  certain,  an'  get  his  throat 
wetted  proper,  once  in  a  while,  than  gamble  on  gittin' 
thirty-five  an'  maybe  have  to  go  'round  with  his 
tongue  a-hangin'  out. 

"Jim  told  me  about  once  when  he  was  workin' 
for  Jerry  Bryans — a  man  that  was  no  good,  though 
he  married-,  the  finest  woman  in  the  country  an* 
then  skipped  out  an'  left  her,  which  was  the  best 
thing  he  ever  done,  School-teacher.  Well,  Jim  his 
dry  time  come  around  one  day  about  six  weeks  after 
he.  started  to  work  for  Jerry,  and  he  went  an'  ast 
for  his  time.  Jerry  ast  him  what  he  thought  he 
was,  a  bank,  to  have  money  on  him  in  the  spring  o' 
the  year,  six  months  off  of  harvest-time. 

228 


LAYING  HIM  AWAY 

"Jim  says  he  didn't  know  whether  Jerry  was  a 
bank  or  a  jail,  but  he  knew  one  thing,  he  had  to 
have  some  sassaparilla  or  die;  so  he  pasted  Jerry 
one  in  the  eye  for  luck,  an'  went  off  to  try  an'  run 
his  face  at  the  Commercial.  But  you  might  as 
well  go  a-huntin'  for  water  without  a  witch-hazel 
as  try  to  get  a  drink  of!  of  Tom  Taylor  when  you  were 
broke.  Jim  he  tried  twice — the  first  time  when  Tom 
was  in  the  bar,  and  the  second  time  he  came  back 
when  Mis'  Taylor  was  behind  the  counter. 

"Jim  he  always  had  the  idee,  the  homely  ol'  son 
of  a  moose,  that  he  could  get  around  the  weemen. 
So  he  pestered  her  for  about  a  n'our,  till  fin'ly  she 
come  out  from  behint  the  counter  an'  took  Jim  by 
the  cuff  of  the  neck  an*  the  seat  of  his  pants  an* 
h'isted  him  out  through  the  door,  slap  into  Jack 
Beamish,  who  was  comin'  along  to  get  his  team  from 
behint  the  liv'ry-stable. 

"Well,  you  seen  Jack,  School-teacher;  he's  like 
a  tree  to  bump  up  agenst.  He  never  even  blinked. 
Jim  bounced  off  of  him  like  a  ball  hittin'  a  fence- 
post.  Jack  looked  at  him  an'  ast,  in  that  slow- 
figurin'  way  o'  his'n,  if  he  wanted  a  job.  Jack  knew 
he  was  a  good  man,  from  Jerry,  who  ust  to  tell  all 
his  business  to  everybody. 

'"I  want  a  job,  yes,'  Jim  he  says,  'but  I  want 
somethin'  else  first.  I  want  about  a  bar'lful  o* 
sassaparilla.' 

"Now  anybody  else  would  a  grinned  at  that  and 
stood  Jim  the  drinks  an'  let  it  go  at  that.  But 
Jack  he  never  cracked  a  smile.  He  says:  *  All  right, 
if  you  come  home  with  me  I'll  buy  you  a  bottle,  an' 

16  229 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

take  it  off  of  your  first  month's  pay.     You  can  drink 
it  on  the  way  out.' 

"Jim  his  eyes  sticks  out  at  that,  kind  of.  He 
starts  to'rds  the  bar  agen,  takin'  a  short  cut  over 
Tom  Taylor's  big  black  Newfoun'lan'  dog,  that  gets 
up  anunder  Jim  and  rides  him  on  its  back  about 
thirty  foot  before  he  tumbles  off  an'  comes  back, 
grumblin'  at  the  delay.  But  just  outside  the  bar  door 
Jim  he  kind  o'  ketches  holt  of  himself  and  holds 
himself  tight,  an'  stops.  'One  bottle!'  says  he,  kind 
of  gulpin'.  'Why,  that  would  only  tease  me,  man! 
Buy  me  five  bottles,  right  here  an'  now,  and  I'll  come 
with  you.  If  you  don't,  I'll  hire  with  some  one  else.1 

"O'  course  Jack  he  knowed  Jim  would  have  hired 
with  the  devil  to  get  even  one  bottle,  he  was  that 
dry.  But  he  says:  'All  right;  five  it  is,  then — - 
five  or  one,  it  don't  make  no  difference  to  me.  It 
all  comes  out  o'  your  pay.  I'll  buy  you  a  half  a 
dozen — eh?'  Jack  he  knew  he  would  get  them 
half-dozen  at  a  reduced  rate,  but  Jim  wouldn't  know 
that,  an'  so  he'd  make  the  difference  out  of  ol' 
Jim,  you  see,  School-teacher.  You'd  have  to  get 
up  early  .  .  .  '  (Henry  paid  his  usual  compli 
ment  to  the  acumen  of  Mr.  Beamish.) 

"So  that's  how  Jim  came  to  hire  out  with  Jack, 
School-teacher,  an'  he's  b'en  with  him  ever  sence 
that — goin'  on  about  eight  year  now,  I  guess  it  is. 
Man,  he  was  plastered  that  night  when  they  got  to 
Jack's! — ol'  Jim!  Jack  he  was  feelin'  pritty  good 
himself.  He  don't  mind  takin'  a  drink  now  an' 
then,  if  somebody  else  is  payin'  for  it.  But  Jim! — 
six  whole  bottles! — Mackinaw!" 

230 


LAYING  HIM  AWAY 

Henry's  tone  was  still  that  of  a  mourner  as  he 
uttered  the  last  words;  but  into  it  he  had  introduced 
a  note  of  something  like  admiration.  "OP  Jim!" 
he  intoned  again,  reminiscently.  "Six  bottles!" 
He  squinted  reflectively  along  the  handle  of  the  new 
buggy- whip. 

" Lookout!"  exclaimed  Ernie  Bedford,  involun 
tarily;  eying  the  snapper  of  the  whip  as  Henry,  look 
ing  away  absently,  let  it  descend  toward  Punch's 
ear.  Henry  glanced  around;  but  just  as  he  did 
so  the  ear  and  whip  met  with  a  contact  less  rude  than 
startling.  Punch,  the  skittish,  with  a  snort  and 
jump,  changed  sharply  from  the  center  rut  of  the 
trail  to  the  left-hand  wheel-mark,  rasping  the  wheel 
of  the  buggy  against  a  stone  in  the  side  of  the  deep, 
dusty  hollow. 

"Steady  there,  you  useless  white-footed  jumpin'- 
jack!"  growled  Henry,  in  high  irritation,  as  he  drew 
in  hard  on  the  lines  and  craned  his  neck  over  the 
side.  "Am  I  to  spend  all  mornin'  a-sprucin'  this  rig 
up  to  go  to  a  funer'l,  anj  now  here  you  go  spoke- 
shavin'  all  the  paint  ofFn  my  wheels  for  nothin'. 
School-teacher,  I've  drove  this  horse  four  hundred 
times,  if  I've  drove  him  once;  an'  he  'ain't  learned 
yet  that  I  only  carry  a  whip  for  style,  not  to  use. 
But,  Mackinaw!  I'd  like  to  lay  the  bud  to  him  right 
now!  A  scratch  on  thon  rim  like  the  Missouri 
River  drawed  on  a  map! — you  stone-combin', 
mis'able  shaganappy,  you!" 

Henry  exhibited  more  choler  than  Ernie  would 
have  thought  resided  behind  those  calm  wombat 
whiskers  and  those  contemplative  Aurelian  eyes  of 

231 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

faded  blue.  But  the  specklessness  of  horse  and  rig 
for  a  Sunday  or  ceremonial  drive  was  a  strong  social 
point  with  Henry  Nicol.  If  the  pony  had  turned 
the  buggy  over  and  thrown  him  out  and  muddied 
his  Sunday  suit,  but  in  the  act  somehow  miraculously 
avoided  leaving  any  mark  on  the  vehicle,  he  would 
have  taken  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  Ernie,  in  fact, 
noted  that,  although  Henry  had  rubbed  a  mud-spot 
about  the  size  of  a  five-cent  piece  off  the  dashboard  of 
the  rig,  there  was  one  the  size  of  a  half-dollar  on  the 
cuff  of  his  trousers  that  he  had  never  noticed  at 
all. 

Henry  Nicol  kept  glowering  frowningly  over  at 
the  scratch,  then  straightening  up  and  flogging  the 
horse  in  pantomime  with  the  whip,  all  the  rest  of 
the  way  to  John  Beamish's.  As  soon  as  he  turned 
in  at  the  farmer's  gate,  however,  Henry  put  the 
matter  out  of  his  mind  and  became  at  once  his  usual 
placid  self,  with  a  mental  facility  at  which  Ernie 
inwardly  marveled — dropping  the  whip  into  its 
holder,  clucking  at  the  pony  and  making  it  stick 
up  its  head  and  trot  smartly  along  the  lane  between 
the  oat-field  and  the  barley-patch.  Arrived  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  farm  buildings,  Ernie  was  surprised 
to  see  that  Henry  turned  down  toward  the  stables, 
instead  of  driving  directly  to  the  house. 

"Going  to  put  the  horse  in,  Henry?"  he  asked. 

"No — going  to  tie  up  down  here,  School-teacher," 
Henry  explained,  "because  he's  laid  out  in  the  gren- 
nery — ol'  Jim!" 

Three  men  got  up  from  a  wagon  tongue  on  which 
they  had  been  sitting,  as  Henry  pulled  up  in  front 

232 


LAYING  HIM  AWAY 

of  the  granary  door — fellow-workers  of  Jim  Dover's 
on  the  Beamish  farm.  Two  were  in  rough  black 
suits,  smelling  strongly  of  the  hayloft  in  which  the 
" turkeys"  of  the  hired  help  were  stored,  and  with 
little  seeds  like  hots'  eggs  on  horses  stuck  about  in 
the  nap  of  the  cloth.  The  third  man,  who  had 
evidently  been  inadequately  provided  for  ceremonial 
occasions,  but  had  made  out  the  best  he  could,  wore 
a  new  pair  of  overalls  along  with  his  rusty  black 
coat. 

The  three  bobbed  their  heads  a  little  deferentially 
at  Henry,  who  appeared  to  Ernie  to  be,  for  some 
reason,  master  of  ceremonies  instead  of  merely  a  fol 
lower  of  the  funeral  cortege. 

"Day,  George!  'Day,  Bob!  How  do,  Charley?" 
responded  Henry,  in  a  brisk,  business-like  way, 
ducking  slightly  at  each  in  turn  as  he  climbed  out 
of  the  buggy  and  tied  the  horse  to  one  of  the  wheels 
of  the  wagon.  "Is  she  all  ready?  Where's  the 
preacher?" 

"Up  to  the  house,"  said  Charley — he  of  the  sky- 
blue  pantaloons — mildly.  "He  ain't  puttin'  him 
self  out  much." 

"He'd  make  more  fuss  if  it  was  Jack  we  was 
buryin',  wouldn't  he,  boys?"  observed  Henry. 
"Boys,  make  yous  acquainted  with  the  School 
teacher.  Shak'ands !  He's  a  friend  o'  mine,  and  he's 
a  friend  o'  Jim's.  He's  knowed  Jim  sence  the  day 
he  first  come  here  to  teach ;  the  three  of  us,  Jim  an' 
him  an'  me,  we  rode  out  together  as  far  as  Jack's 
that  day  in  the  same  rig.  Didn't  we,  School 
teacher?"  Henry  looked  comically  at  the  teacher  as 

233 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

he  concluded  the  introduction;  then,  with  an  extra 
knot  to  the  tie-rope  which  secured  the  chafing 
Punch,  he  turned  toward  the  granary. 

"Come  on,  School-teacher,  an*  see  the  job  Mac 
done  on  him;  and  then  we'll  go  up  to  the  house  an* 
get  that  preacher. ' '  With  these  words  Henry  bustled 
into  the  granary,  climbing  up  by  the  flat  stone  which 
had  been  placed  beneath  the  deep  sill  as  a  step. 
He  led  the  way  back  into  a  cool  corner  between  the 
wheat-bin  and  the  oat-bin,  where,  smelling  faintly 
of  the  embalmer's  drugs,  a  plain  black  coffin  rested 
on  three  filled  wheat-sacks  laid  down  in  a  row. 

The  panel  of  the  casket  was  open  at  the  head. 
Henry  took  off  his  hat,  bent  down,  carefully  dusted 
a  few  specks  of  chaff  off  the  glass  with  his  pocket- 
handkerchief,  and  straightened  up  again  into  a 
standing  position,  stroking  his  wombat  whiskers 
with  a  kind  of  grave  approval. 

"Mac  ought  to  take  out  a  patent  for  that  system 
he  has  o'  reducin'  wrinkles,"  he  said,  presently,  in 
a  thoughtful  tone.  "He'd  make  his  fortune  out  oj 
some  of  these  here  weemen  that  is  so  particular  about 
how  old  they  look.  He's  pulled  about  fifty  years  off 
of  ol'  Jim's  looks.  You  wouldn't  think  he  was  any 
more  'n  about  ninety-five,  to  see  him  there — now 
would  you,  School-teacher?" 

Ernie,  who  had  not  been  able  to  take  his  eyes  off 
the  face,  showing  behind  its  glass  like  an  uncannily 
real  picture  in  a  black  frame,  thought  he  saw  the 
origin  of  the  metamorphosis  to  which  Henry  Nicol 
referred.  Macnamara,  the  undertaker,  had  not 
only  elevated  the  chin  a  little,  thereby  taking  up 

234 


LAYING  HIM  AWAY 

the  slack  of  the  deeper  wrinkles,  but  into  the  minor 
fillets  of  the  queer  striate  mummy  visage  he  had 
dusted  powder  until  the  deep  sunburn  had  been 
toned  to  a  pale  brown. 

1  'He  looks  a  baby  there  to  what  he  did  the  last 
time  I  seen  him — givin'  thon  Fanny  mare  o'  Jack's 
a  goin'-over  for  steppin'  out  of  the  traces,  a  trick 
she's  got,  while  Jim  was  a-scrapin'  the  clay  off  the 
plowsheer.  You  'ain't  got  a  chew  on  you  any 
wheres,  have  you,  Bob?" 

The  tall  man  with  the  baggy  black  trousers 
handed  over  to  Henry  a  plug  end  from  his  hip 
pocket. 

"You  never  forgit  to  change  all  the  things  out  o' 
your  pockets  when  you  change  your  pants,  do  you, 
boy?"  Henry  Nicol  remarked,  as  he  picked  a  wire 
fence-staple  out  of  the  tobacco.  "You  hang  on  to 
them  steeples  as  if  they  was  worth  about  a  dollar 
apiece.  .  .  .  Well,  we  was  all  his  friends,  wasn't  we, 
boys?— ol'  Jim!" 

The  three  rough  men  glanced  at  one  other  in  a 
quelled  way.  Then  George  Pearson,  whose  blue 
shirt  showed  through  in  little  patches  at  his  elbows 
and  whose  braces  were  repaired  with  binder  twine, 
looked  up  and  said: 

"What  relations  was  you  an'  him,  Hank?" 

"Me  an'  who?"  interrogated  Henry. 

"Him,"  said  George,  turning  his  thumb  down  a 
little  gingerly  toward  the  still  features  with  their 
(as  it  now  seemed  to  Ernie)  slightly  bored  ex 
pression. 

"No  relations,"  said  Henry;  then,  as  he  caught 
235 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

the  other's  drift,  he  added,  somewhat  hastily  and 
irrelevantly :  ' '  Has  yous  boys  got  the  hind  seat  took 
out  o'  Jack's  democrat?  Bob,  you  was  Jim's  bunk- 
mate;  you  drive  the  hearse.'* 

But  George  Pearson  was  not  to  be  turned  by  so 
primitive  a  device  as  changing  the  conversation 
from  saying  out  his  say. 

"Well,"  he  went  on,  continuing  as  though  he  had 
never  been  interrupted,  "what  with  payin'  Mac  for 
comin'  out  all  this  way  from  Oakburn  to  fix  Jim  up, 
an'  makin'  good  to  Jack  for  our  time  an'  the  rent  of 
the  democrat  for  the  afternoon,  an'  buyin'  the  coffin 
and  the  lot  out  there  in  the  cemetairy,  an'  givin'  five 
dollars  or  so,  I  s'pose,  to  that  English-church 
preacher — " 

"Well,"  put  in  Henry,  defensively,  "there's  more 
style  to  them  English-church  ministers,  an'  we 
want  this  thing  done  right,  don't  we,  boys — ol' 
Jim!  The  English-church  prayer-books  has  it  all 
wrote  down  what  to  say.  I  told  this  preacher  to 
bring  along  half  a  dozen  extry  books,  so's  we  can 
fetch  in  the — the  responses.  The  School-teacher 
will  show  us  where  the  place  is,  when  the  preacher 
gets  goin'." 

" — what  with  all  these  here  expenses  to  meet," 
proceeded  George  Pearson,  doggedly,  "you'll  be  set 
back  about  four  months'  pay,  won't  you,  Hank? 
We'd  have  give*  our  time  free  to  ol'  Jim,  too.  You 
nee'n'to  have  paid  us  for  that." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Henry,  looking  down  at  the 
coffin  and  the  neatly  embalmed  figure,  now  that  he 
had  been  willy-nilly  reminded  of  his  part  in  the 

236 


LAYING  HIM  AWAY 

ceremonial,  with  a  certain  air  of  pride  and  pro 
prietorship,  "Jack  he  don't  pay  yous  boys  much, 
an'  I  ain't  a  spendin'  man  myself.  I  got  nothin' 
else  to  do  with  the  money — just  now."  (Ernie 
noticed  that  a  tranquil,  pensive  expression  crept 
into  Henry's  demure  eyes  and  wrinkles,  and  that 
he  stroked  his  wombat  whiskers  softly,  as  he  added 
the  last  phrase  "just  now.") 

As  to  John  Beamish,  Henry  did  not  mention — for 
he  was  no  trouble-maker — that  the  farmer  had  held 
him  up  for  double  time  on  account,  as  Beamish 
claimed,  of  letting  the  work  get  behind  in  the  busy 
season. 

"Well,"  he  said,  in  a  moment,  coming  briskly 
out  of  his  reverie,  "ol'  Jim  will  be  dust  an'  ashes 
before  we  get  him  anunder,  if  we  set  here  an'  wait  for 
that  preacher  to  come  out  by  himself.  Come  on, 
School-teacher;  you  can  talk  to  him  better  than 
what  I  can." 

With  these  words  and  the  application  of  a  vigor 
ous  hand  under  the  teacher's  armpit,  Henry  hustled 
Ernie  Bedford  out  of  the  granary  door  and,  calling 
back  a  direction  to  Bob  Lowe  to  have  the  democrat 
ready,  hurried  up  the  knoll  to  the  Beamish  farm 
house. 

John  Beamish  and  the  minister,  in  the  farm-house 
living-room,  were  giving  each  other  of  their  best 
in  conversation.  The  farmer  leaned  back  in  his 
chair,  his  thumbs  hooked  in  his  vest-sleeves,  in  un 
conscious  imitation  of  the  rural  politicians  who  had 
been  John's  only  available  model  as  to  the  correct 
attitude  for  polite  attention.  The  clergyman,  his 

237 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

flat  black  hat  surmounting  the  Bible  and  the  pile  of 
prayer-books  on  the  table,  his  coat-tails  gathered 
up  and  thrown  across  his  knees,  and  his  hairy,  white- 
pored  hands  moving  in  an  expository  way,  was  ex 
tending  himself  at  his  conversational  best,  in  tribute 
to  his  wealthiest  parishioner. 

The  farmer,  as  Henry  and  the  teacher  appeared 
in  the  doorway,  lifted  his  hand  in  the  suave  salute 
of  the  money-maker  to  the  man  from  whom  money 
is  to  be  made;  but  the  minister,  who  had  received 
his  fee  for  the  funeral  service  in  advance  and  spent 
it  two  days  ago,  continued  to  the  end  of  his  perora 
tion  before  he  turned  around. 

'"Day,  Jack!"  said  Henry.  "How's  th'  boy?" 
Then  to  the  clergyman  he  said,  briskly,  but  with 
respect.  "Well,  sir,  we're  all  set  an'  ready,  if  you 
are." 

"Set  and  ready,  my  good  fellow?"  The  minister 
looked  with  a  vague  expression  from  Ernie  to  the 
speaker;  then  back  again  to  Ernie. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Henry.  "Ready  to  plant  ol' 
Jim." 

"Plant? — plant? — ahr,  yas,"  the  minister  rose  to 
his  feet  with  considerable  deliberation  and  with  a 
deprecating  glance  at  John  Beamish,  as  though  to 
say,  "You'll  excuse  me  while  I  attend  to  this  small 
matter,  I'm  sure."  Gathering  up  his  books  and 
setting  his  hat  fussily  on  his  head,  the  churchman 
then  turned,  inclined  his  back  forward  until  it 
formed  a  roof-like  angle  with  his  legs,  the  gables 
being  his  coat-tails;  put  forth  the  hairy,  white- 
pored  hand  with  the  thumb  extended  perpendicu- 

238 


LAYING  HIM  AWAY 

larly,  and  said  to  the  farmer,  "I  will  then,  my  dear 
sir,  wish  you  good  day  for  the  present." 

John  Beamish  shook  hands;  and  the  minister,  his 
back  still  inclined  to  the  front  a  little,  as  though  he 
were  waiting  for  some  appointed  signal  to  straighten 
himself  out,  pushed  past  Henry  and  Ernie  as  they 
stood  in  the  doorway,  and  hurried  off  down  the 
path.  Not  until  he  had  reached  a  point  about 
twenty  yards  from  the  house  did  he  turn  and  wait 
for  the  two  to  overtake  him. 

''Where  is  the — ahr — departed?"  he  inquired  of 
Henry;  looking  first  at  the  sky,  as  though  he  were 
questing  for  signs  of  rain  (except  that  he  kept  his 
eyes  shut)  and  then  drawing  a  kind  of  bead  down 
ward  till  he  reached  the  level  of  Henry's  head. 
Arrived  at  this  plane,  he  opened  his  eyes  and  mouth 
slightly,  as  though  his  face  had  cracked  simultane 
ously  in  three  places,  and  awaited  Henry's  response. 

"In  th'  grennery,"  Henry  answered. 

"Ahr!  In  thee-ah  granary.  I  see-e.  Well,  let 
us  proceed  thithah.  I  think" — the  clergyman  laid 
his  hand  softly  and  ingratiatingly  upon  Henry's 
arm — "I  think,  do  you  know,  we  can  shohten  the 
service  to  meahly  a  prayer  or  two.  Now,  don't  you 
think  so,  yes?" 

"No,  sir."  Henry's  tone  was  respectful,  but  firm. 
"We  want  it  just  like  it  is  in  the  book.  We  only 
got  to  bury  ol'  Jim  the  once,  you  see — not  like  ol' 
Tom  Goldstone,  down  South,  when  a  badger  on- 
covered  his  rough-box  and  the  sextont  had  to 
drownd  the  badger  out  an*  fill  in  the  hole  the  second 
time.  ..." 

239 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

"Ahr,"  the  minister  put  in,  hoping  to  win  his 
way  by  jocosity,  "that  was  very  wrong  of  the  bad- 
gah — very  reprehensible,  very.  Now,  wasn't  it?" 

"Oh,  he  done  worse  'n  that,"  rejoined  Henry. 
"The  preacher  come  out  into  the  churchyard  to 
see  him  drownded  out,  an'  he  darn  near  chawed  that 
preacher  up  an'  swollered  him  when  he  was  a-dodgin' 
the  sextont  and  the  spade." 

"Ouch!"  said  the  clergyman,  playfully.  "What 
a  shocking  badgah!  But  what  say — er — Mr.  Nicol? 
Shall  we  abridge?" 

"A-britch  nothin',"  said  Henry,  a  little  testily. 
"We  want  the  whole  thing,  britches  an'  all — from 
the  tossel  on  its  cap  to  the  toe-caps  on  its  boots. 
I  give  you  five  dollars  for  this,  you  mind,  sir,"  Henry 
ended,  reproachfully. 

"Ahr,  very  well,"  yielded  the  cleric,  crossly; 
"ver-ry  well.  Let  us  make  haste,  then,  my  good 
fellow." 

"It  wouldn't  be  right  to  ol'  Jim,  you  see,  sir," 
Henry  temporized,  quickening  his  steps  to  keep  up 
with  the  other's  irate  increase  of  speed;  "but  I 
can  give  you  another  five  dollars,  if  that  would  help 
any." 

"Not  necessary,  I  ashaw  you,  Nicol,  my  man," 
the  minister  responded,  somewhat  loftily;  but  his 
stride  visibly  slackened,  and  presently  he  added, 
with  a  little  dawning  smile,  "Still,  it  would  help  the 
church,  you  know,  my  friend." 

"All  right,"  said  Henry;  "that's  settled,  then. 
You  come  around  with  me  to  Tom's,  sir,  on  the  way 
home,  after  it's  over,  and  I'll  see  that  the  church 

240 


LAYING  HIM  AWAY 

gets  another  five-spot.  If  Tom  'ain't  got  it  on  him, 
I'll  borry  it  off  the  School-teacher  here." 

"Ahr!"  the  minister  turned  around  to  Ernie  with 
a  radiant  look  and  the  hairy,  white-pored  hand  ex 
tended,  thumb  up  and  fingers  straight  out,  quivering 
with  cordiality,  "this  is  our  young  friend,  the  new 
Islay  professor,  is  it?  And  how  a'  you,  my  boy? 
We  have  not  had  the  pleasyaw  of  seeing  you  at  owah 
meetings — but  we  shall,  we  shall,  I'm  shaw.  Shall 
we  not?" 

"I  guess  so,"  said  Ernie,  as  the  hand,  touched  in 
the  center  by  his  forefinger,  collapsed  around  his  in 
a  loose,  moist  band. 

"Well,  here  we  are,"  announced  Henry. 

The  democrat,  with  its  hind  seat  removed,  had 
been  backed  up  to  within  a  few  yards  of  the  granary 
door.  The  hearse  team,  ready  harnessed  and  tied 
to  the  wagon  wheel,  were  trying  to  establish  social 
relations  with  the  surly  Punch,,  who  stood,  his  eyes 
snobbishly  half-closed  and  his  ears  canted  back 
forbiddingly,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  wagon. 

The  three  hired  men,  who  had  in  the  interval 
resumed  their  seats  on  the  wagon  tongue,  arose,  red 
and  embarrassed,  brushing  mechanically  at  their 
tattered  coats. 

"Now,  boys,"  said  Henry,  lowering  his  voice, 
"we'll  bring  him  out.  Us  four  that  was  ol'  Jim's 
mates  will  be  the  pole  [pall] -bearers.  Come  on. 
Bob,  his  bunk-mate,  an'  me  will  take  the  head; 
an'  yous,  Geordie  an'  Charley,  take  the  han'les  at  the 
foot." 

The  minister,  glancing  at  his  watch,  tucked  his 
241 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

books  against  his  ribs,  braced  his  elbow  on  the 
backs  of  them,  put  his  knuckles  under  his  chin,  and 
waited,  his  eyelids  fluttering  up  and  down  im 
patiently.  Ernie  stood  across  from  him,  outside 
the  granary  door. 

The  four  others  filed  in,  and  after  a  period  of 
scraping  and  shuffling,  broken  by  soft-toned  direc 
tions  from  Henry  and  the  click  of  the  coffin-panel 
closed  home  for  the  last  time  over  the  face  of  Jim 
Dover  by  his  friend  Henry  Nicol,  they  reappeared. 

"Watch  what  you're  doin'  now,  boys,"  said 
Henry,  a  little  sharply,  as  he  stepped  carefully  down 
from  the  high  door-sill,  having  noted  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eye  that  the  two  at  the  foot  of  the 
casket  were  staring  hard  at  the  minister  and  not 
watching  their  way.  "Yous  can  see  the  preacher 
any  time — all  you  got  to  do  is  to  go  to  church 
reg'lar — but  you  won't  get  another  chance  not  to 
drop  Jim  and  bust  him  open.  So  look  out !  Steady, 
now — steady!" 

Henry  grasped  the  yet  untouched  middle  handle 
on  his  side,  as  a  safeguard,  and,  slowly  and  awk 
wardly,  the  men  felt  their  way  down  the  step. 
Finally  they  reached  level  ground  in  safety,  and  as 
they  proceeded  toward  the  democrat  Henry  re 
marked,  over  his  shoulder: 

"You'd  think  it  was  a  little  baby  we  had  in  here. 
It  makes  a  man  feel  like  openin'  the  lid  to  see  if 
he's  still  there — ol'  Jim!  .  .  .  Now,  boys,  yo-heave! 
.  .  .  There!" 

Thus  the  coffin  of  Jim  Dover  was  safely  deposited 
in  John  Beamish's  democrat,  with  a  mattress  of 

242 


LAYING  HIM  AWAY 

patched,  empty  grain-sacks  beneath  it,  that  it 
might  take  no  harm  from  the  jolting  of  the  rig. 

"Yous  couldn't  find  the  backboard,  eh?"  com 
mented  Henry,  scrutinizing  the  open  end  of  the 
democrat-box.  "Well,  then,  Geordie,  you  an'  Charley 
had  better  set  in  th'  back,  here,  an'  watch  he  don't 
slip  out.  I'll  climb  up  with  Bob  on  the  seat.  School 
teacher,  you  bring  the  preacher  along  in  the  buggy. 
Keep  a  tight  line  on  thon  Punch  horse,  for  he's 
kind  o'  tricky,  an*  two  perfec'ly  good  necks  may 
get  broke  if  yous  go  gettin'  absent-minded." 

"See  an*  don't  lose  any  o'  them  bags,  men," 
called  John  Beamish,  in  his  stolid  bass,  as  he  stood 
at  the  corner  of  the  granary,  munching  at  his  quid, 
and  watched  the  democrat  with  its  coffin  and  four 
shabby  mourners  move  away  from  the  shed  that  had 
been  incommoded  for  two  nights  and  two  days  by 
a  hired  man  unable  to  pay  for  his  bed. 

Under  a  young  poplar,  in  a  modest  corner  of  the 
little  cemetery  with  its  three-strand  barb-wire  fence, 
a  grave,  neatly  dug  by  Henry  and  Bob  the  day  be 
fore,  awaited  its  tenant. 

The  seedy  clergyman,  even  his  dismal  monotone 
failing  to  quite  mar  the  effect  of  the  noble  passages 
from  the  Church  of  England  office  for  the  burial  of 
the  dead,  managed  to  jump  from  "fleeth  as  it  were  a 
shadow"  down  to  "forasmuch"  while  Henry  and 
Bob  were  busy  with  the  lengths  of  clothes-line  that 
lowered  Jim  Dover's  coffin  into  the  rough-box;  and, 
with  sagging  book  and  roving  eyes,  succeeded  in 
reducing  to  a  dozen  listless  lines  that  fine  and  solemn 
portion  of  the  service  which  accompanies  the  return- 

243 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

ing  of  the  earth  into  the  excavation.  A  relieved 
yawn,  making  the  final  cleric  ''Amen"  into  some 
expression  like  "Ah-yem,"  concluded  the  formal 
laying  away  of  Jim  Dover. 

"Them  kind  o'  preachers,"  said  Henry,  "is  prob 
ably  drew  into  the  ministry  by  the  prospec'  of  only 
one  day's  work  a  week."  He  was  sitting,  along  with 
Mr.  Kernaghan  and  Ernie,  all  three  in  their  sock 
feet,  filling  Mrs.  Kernaghan's  precinct  with  the 
smoke  of  good  tobacco,  and  listening  to  the  rain 
that  had  followed  their  arrival  home  from  the  ceme 
tery. 

"But,"  the  philosopher  of  Islay  continued,  after  a 
moment,  stroking  his  wombat  whiskers  meditatively, 
"you  got  to  have  a  preacher,  even  one  o'  them 
kind,  for  a  buryin',  just  the  same  as  you  got  to  get 
a  lawyer  when  you  want  a  will  drew  up  proper.  .  .  . 
And  then,  too" — Henry  paused  with  his  hand 
curved  around  his  chin,  smiling  serenely  at  some 
pleasant  turn  to  his  reflections — "o'  course  you 
can't  get  along  without  'em,  neither,  when  two 
people  is — is  a-gettin'  morried." 


XVIII 

AFTER   CHOIR   PRACTICE 

LARA  MORTON  and  Ida  Bethune  were  picking 
up  the  hymn-books  in  Islay  school-house — 
which  was  also  Islay  church — after  the  weekly 
practice  of  the  choir  Clara  had  organized  among 
the  Methodists  of  the  district.  If  the  teller  of  this 
tale  has  succeeded  in  presenting  Clara  justly  and 
in  her  true  character  to  the  reader,  the  latter  will 
not  be  surprised  to  find  Ida  forgiven  for  her  out 
burst  after  the  butterfly  episode  of  a  previous  day. 
As  for  Ida  herself,  she  had  decided,  after  an  evening 
of  sulking,  that  it  would  be,  to  use  a  saying  of  Wheat- 
land,  " cutting  off  her  nose  to  spite  her  face,"  to  go 
''straight  off  'ome,"  as  she  had  at  first  intended. 
Her  people  would  insist  on  her  working  out  some 
place — if  not  at  Morton's,  then  elsewhere — until 
they  were  "on  their  feet,"  and  she  would  never  find 
an  easier  "boss"  than  Clara  Morton.  In  view  of 
this,  she  had  responded  to  Clara's  disposition 
to  forgive  and  forget,  with  a  kind  of  grudging 
truce. 

Ida  was  not  in  the  choir;  but  Clara  had  had  two 
reasons  for  asking  the  girl  to  come  with  her  "for 
i7  245 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

company"  on  the  half-mile  walk  from  the  Morton 
farm  to  the  school-house. 

The  first  reason  was  that  the  male  choristers  would 
bring  their  "gals"  with  them,  and  Clara  did  not 
want  to  disorganize  her  choir  by  putting  herself  (as 
some  would  say,  "apurpose")  in  a  position  where 
somebody  else's  young  man  would  feel  chivalrously 
bound  to  "see  her  home."  The  other  reason  was 
that  Ernie  Bedford,  who  knew  choir-practice  date  as 
he  knew  no  other  day  of  the  week,  would  probably 
"drop  in"  just  as  she  was  ready  to  go  home;  and 
Clara  wanted  to  show  him,  without  resort  to  the 
usual  feminine  device  of  interposing  an  apparent 
rival — a  plan  she  was  too  honest  and  foursquare  a 
little  soul  to  use,  anyway — that  she  didn't  need  him, 
and  that  he  could  devote  himself  entirely  to  Mabel 
Beamish  if  he  wanted  to. 

But  there  seemed  to  have  been  little  necessity, 
on  this  evening,  for  Clara  to  have  equipped  herself 
against  Ernie's  coming.  The  hymn-books  were  all 
piled  up  tidily,  the  organ  dusted,  closed,  and  locked; 
and  still  Ida  and  Clara  were  in  sole  tenancy  of  the 
premises. 

They  pinned  their  hats  on  by  the  round  beveled 
bit  of  mirror  in  the  organ-top,  straightened  the  cloth 
on  the  teacher's  table,  and  crossed  toward  the  door. 
Here,  however,  Clara,  after  loitering  a  little  to  set 
aright  a  picture-frame  tilted  slightly  askew,  paused 
and  glanced  again  around  the  room. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  with  a  little  heightening  of 
color,  carefully  avoiding  her  companion's  eye  as 
she  spoke,  "that  we'd  better  sweep  up  a  little  bit, 

246 


AFTER  CHOIR  PRACTICE 

Ida,  before  we  go.  Jim  and  Nat  and  Lizzie,  when 
they  were  cutting  up  that  time,  seem  to  have  scat 
tered  the  teacher's  crayons  around  a  little.  You 
pick  up  all  the  pieces  of  chalk,  and  I'll  go  out  into 
the  lobby  and  get  the  broom,  if  I  can  find  it.  Rub 
off  that  scribble  they  made  on  the  blackboard,  too, 
after  you  get  the  chalk  picked  up." 

There  was  a  very  insignificant  amount  of  chalk 
dropped,  and  Miss  Bethune,  who  knew  "what  was 
what,"  picked  it  up  rather  disdainfully,  and  erased 
the  scribbling — which  amounted  to  no  more  than 
the  one  word  "Liz"  chalked  on  the  lower  corner  of 
the  blackboard — with  a  single  scornful  swipe  of  a 
brush. 

"Ho-o!"  she  muttered  to  herself,  beaming  into  va 
cancy  with  her  pale-green  smile.  "A-tryin'  to  put 
in  time  till  'e  comes,  eh?  But  I  shall  stick  to  you, 
my  lady,  tight  as  wax.  If  you  didn't  want  me  along, 
you  shouldn't  'ave  harsked  me  to  come!" 

Outside,  in  the  starlit  darkness,  on  one  of  the 
trails  which  approached  the  school -house,  a  horse 
and  buggy  came  along  at  a  pace  that,  while  the 
ostentatious  trotting  "business"  of  an  old  beast 
experienced  in  man-psychology  made  it  appear  an 
almost  going-for-the-doctor  speed,  was  really  not 
much  faster  than  a  brisk  walk.  In  the  vehicle  were 
two  anxious  men,  whose  faces  brightened  as,  round 
ing  the  end  of  the  grove,  they  saw  the  school  win 
dows  still  aglow. 

"Good!  They're  there  yet,  Charlie,"  said  Ernie 
Bedford.  "Now  you  pull  up  here  and  wait  till  I 
take  a  peek  in  the  window  and  see  if  the  choir's 

247 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

gone  home.  I'll  wave  to  you  across  the  window- 
pane  so  you'll  see  my  hand,  if  it's  all  right.  Then 
you  drive  up  behind  the  lobby  and  wait  there  till 
you  hear  me  say,  'Are  you  ready?'  then  pull  around 
into  sight,  as  quick  and  noisy  as  you  like,  so  they'll 
think  you  just  got  there." 

Charlie  Tinker,  from  the  point  of  view  of  material 
possessions  the  most  eligible,  even  as  his  personal 
characteristics  made  him  the  least  desired,  of  the 
unmated  men  of  Islay,  had  been  ''sweet"  on  Ida 
Bethune  ever  since  chance  and  the  Sunday-school 
picnic  and  sharp,  slatternly,  many-babied  Mamma 
Bethune  had  thrown  them  together,  a  couple  of 
months  ago.  (I  agree  with  you,  reader,  that  there's 
no  accounting  for  tastes.) 

Ida  had  been  at  first  doubtful.  "I  don't  want 
'im,"  she  had  said;  "not  me,  mar.  I  should  be 
bored  to  death."' 

"Wot  if  you  are?"  her  mother  had  said,  sitting 
among  her  brood  like  the  picture  of  the  "old  woman 
who  lived  in  a  shoe."  "Reggie,  if  you  don't  give 
Lionel  'is  boot,  ri-ight  hoff,  with  no  more  nonsense 
abaout  it,  I  shall  smack  you — right  on  your  bare 
be'ind.  .  .  .Wot  if  you  are,  I  say,  Hida?  'E's  worth 
two  thousand  paound,  if  'e's  worth  a  penny,  that 
man.  I  wish  I  was  in  yawr  shoes,  my  gel — I  should 
'ave  'im  like  winkin'." 

Ida  had  evidently  thought  the  matter  over  more 
carefully  after  that;  and,  having  perhaps  decided 
that  it  was  better  to  have  any  kind  of  beau  than  no 
beau  at  all — Ida's  stormy -petrel  individuality  having 
made  her  somewhat  of  a  wall-flower  in  Islay  dis- 

248 


AFTER  CHOIR  PRACTICE 

trict — had  decided  on  a  passive  r61e  in  the  matter; 
that  is  to  say,  she  tolerated  Mr.  Tinker,  without 
giving  him,  as  he  complained  to  her  mother,  ''aye, 
yes,  ner  no." 

This  attitude,  however — as  those  having  experi 
ence  in  such  matters  know — is  the  most  piquant 
method  of  leading  on  the  Romeos  of  the  world; 
and  Mr.  Tinker  was  now  in  such  an  advanced  stage 
of  infatuation  that  he  was  off  his  feed  and  losing  ten 
pounds  a  month. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  almost  an  abandon  of  joy- 
ousness  that,  when  Ernie  Bedford  appeared  in  the 
Tinker  shanty  this  Saturday  evening,  its  proprietor 
had  listened  to  the  unfolding  of  a  plan  whereby, 
appearing  opportunely  at  the  school-house  door,  he 
would  be  assured  of  Miss  Bethune's  exclusive  com 
pany  all  the  way  from  Islay  school  around  the  alkali 
swamp  to  the  Bethunes'  door. 

"To-morrow's  her  Sunday  off,"  Ernie  had  said, 
"so  she's  sure  to  be  going  home  to-night." 

"But,  lookin'  at  the  whys  an'  the  wherefores  of 
it,  young  feller,"  Mr.  Tinker  had  pondered,  knock 
ing  his  pipe  out  against  a  rusty  stove-lid,  sticking 
it  into  his  hip  pocket,  and  taking  a  chew  of  tobacco 
for  variety,  "it  ain't  the  hitchin'  up  I  mind,  but 
won't  a  horse  an'  rig  get  us  there  too  quick?  You 
can't  put  up  much  of  a  argument  in  fifteen  minutes. 
It's  only  a  mile.  What  do  you  say?" 

"Certainly  take  a  horse  and  rig,"  had  been  Ernie's 
response.  "She  mightn't  come  if  you  were  on  foot. 
You  know  what  Ida  is — she  likes  style.  And  then, 
besides,  it  might  look  too  much  like  a  put-up  job. 

249 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Take  your  slowest  horse,  though,  if  you  like — there's 
no  special  objection  to  that." 

"Yes,  that's  so,"  Mr.  Tinker  had  agreed — "yes, 
that's  so.  School-teacher,  you  should  'a'  b'en  a 
general.  I  won't  be  a  minute.  I'll  get  that  old 
Kate  mare  with  a  kind  of  a  trottin'  walk.  She'd 
fool  anybody.  When  you're  in  a  hurry  it's  no  use  o' 
lickin'  her;  you  got  to  get  out  an'  push." 

"All  right,  all  right,"  Ernie  had  rejoined,  im 
patiently,  "but  get  a  move  on,  or  they'll  be  gone 
before  we  get  there." 

Thereat  Mr.  Tinker  had  leaped  for  his  hat, 
jumped  over  the  stove,  and  disappeared  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  stable. 

Miss  Bethune,  at  the  school-house,  having  cleaned 
off  the  blackboard  as  requested  by  Clara,  had  half- 
turned  to  sit  down  in  the  teacher's  chair,  when  she 
suddenly  stiffened  and  straightened — then,  with  a 
howl  like  a  St.  Bernard  pup,  fled  into  the  lobby  and 
flung  both  arms  around  Clara  Morton. 

"What  on  earth's  the  matter  now,  Ida?"  said  the 
latter,  staggering  a  little. 

"It's— hah-hah— it's  a  peepin'  Tom!  'E  looked 
right  in  the  winder  on  me,  'e  did!" 

"Peeping  Tom?"  repeated  Clara,  a  little  startled, 
although  she  had  never  heard  the  term.  "What's 
that — what  do  you  mean?" 

A  loud  roar  of  laughter,  which  froze  the  blood  in 
the  veins  of  Miss  Bethune  but  merely  caused  Clara 
to  redden  a  little,  sounded  outside;  and  in  a  minute 
Ernie  Bedford,  who  had  heard  the  conversation 
through  the  raised  sash  of  the  lobby  window  as 

250 


AFTER  CHOIR  PRACTICE 

he  came  around  the  building,  appeared  in  the  door 
way. 

"Ow,"  said  Miss  Bethune,  gulping  her  heart  back 
into  place,  "it's  only  'im,  eh?  A  little  more  an'  I 
should  'ave  'ad  a  fit." 

Clara  eyed  the  new-comer  a  little  coldly.  "Ida 
will  see  that  I  get  home  safely,"  she  said;  "you 
needn't  have  troubled  to  come." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Ernie,  cheerfully,  "I'll  go  only 
part  way  then.  Are  you  ready?" 

"Are  you  ready?"  This  was  the  cue  for  Mr. 
Tinker,  sitting  alertly  in  the  buggy  just  around  the 
corner,  to  bang  the  lethargic  Kate  on  the  flank  with 
a  willow  rod  and  drive  into  view. 

"Why,  hello!  Here's  Charlie  Tinker!"  said  Ernie 
Bedford,  drawing  back  into  the  shadow  to  avoid 
the  eye  of  Adam  Morton's  daughter,  which  was  like 
to  bore  a  hole  in  him.  "'Evening,  Charlie!  Great 
growing  weather!" 

A  staring-eyed  grunt  from  Mr.  Tinker  was  the  only 
response.  He  had  pushed  his  hat  back  and  was 
looking  helplessly  at  the  teacher  for  inspiration. 

"I  bet  I  know  who  you're  after,"  rallied  that 
young  man.  "Ida,  here's  your  chance  for  a  ride 
home." 

Mr.  Tinker  moved  to  the  uttermost  farther  edge 
of  his  seat  and  woke  Kate  out  of  a  doze  with  a  fierce 
adjuration  to  "hold  still." 

Whether  Miss  Bethune  did  not  see  what  Clara  (as 
Ernie  now  noted  with  growing  sheepishness)  saw  so 
plainly,  or  whether  she  decided  it  would  not  be  well 
to  push  her  painstaking  admirer  too  far,  can  only 

251 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

be  surmised;  but  after  a  very  slight  hesitation  she 
stepped  toward  the  buggy. 

"Well — if  'e'll  behave,"  she  assented,  a  little 
coquettishly. 

The  starlit  world  reeled,  turned  a  somersault,  and 
slowly  and  giddily  righted  itself  as  Charlie  Tinker 
watched  her  climb  up  beside  him.  Dumbly,  and 
sitting  as  far  away  as  he  could  without  falling  off 
the  edge  of  the  seat,  he  applied  his  rod  with  vigor 
to  the  ribs  of  Kate. 

Miss  Bethune,  after  some  distance  had  been 
traveled  in  a  silence  that  was  beginning  to  get  on 
her  nerves,  glanced  down  at  the  space  which  seemed 
to  be  going  to  waste  on  the  seat  between  herself  and 
her  companion.  The  lurching  of  the  vehicle  on  the 
rough  branch  trail  gave  her  an  excuse  for  diminishing 
this  space  by  imperceptible  little  edgings;  and  this 
she  commenced  to  do  immediately  after  her  glance 
down.  By  the  time  the  buggy  turned  into  the  level 
stretch  of  the  main  road  her  shoulder  was  jogging 
softly  against  Mr.  Tinker's — jogging,  jogging,  jog 
ging  him  into  speech! 

"Well,"  Ernie  felt  like  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  as 
Clara  turned  toward  him  in  the  school-house  door 
way,  after  the  others  had  left,  "that  was  very  smart, 
wasn't  it— Mr.  Bedford?" 

"W-well,"  Ernie  repeated  her  introductory 
word  nervously,  "what's  a  fellow  to  do?" 

"I  don't  think  you  need  come  home  with  me, 
after  that,"  she  said.  "It's  only  a  short  way,  and 
I'm  not  afraid." 

252 


AFTER  CHOIR  PRACTICE 

"I  won't  let  you  go  home  alone,"  Ernie  burst 
out,  "not  if  I  have  to  get  back  and  trot  behind,  like 
a  collie-dog.  Now,  Clara,  what's  the  matter? 
What's — the — matter?  You're  not  a  flirt,  and  I 
know  you're  not  doing  this  just  for — for  devilment. 
Now  tell  me  what's  the  matter?" 

"Well,"  said  Clara,  speaking  again  in  that  prize- 
rebus  way  that  made  her  companion  want  to  dash 
his  hat  to  the  ground  and  jump  up  and  down  on  it, 
"you  acted  pretty  smart  to-night"  (by  "smart" 
Clara  meant  deceitful — the  terms  are  often  inter 
changed  in  Wheat-land — and  elsewhere)  "pretend 
ing  you  didn't  know  Charlie  Tinker  was  there,  when 
you  went  and  brought  him  over  on  purpose;  so 
perhaps  you're  trying  to  act  smart  in  other  ways. 
If  you  hadn't  done  this  to-night,  I  might  have — 
asked  you  something  about  something.  But  now 
I  don't  know  whether  I  will  or  not — ever!" 


XIX 

THE   DEPOSING   OF   A   FARM   QUEEN 

ADAM  MORTON  awoke  in  the  moonlight  from 
a  terrible  dream — not  one  of  those  ordinary 
dreams  built  up  by  the  queer  processes  of  Slumber- 
land,  but  a  vision  which  was  nothing  more  than  an 
accurate  rehearsal,  intensified  by  the  grotesquerie 
of  dream-scenery,  of  the  episode  which  had  sobered 
and  saddened  the  big  man  for  life — the  railway  ac 
cident  of  some  fifteen  years  before. 

Again  he  had  lain,  with  the  exact  feeling  of  being 
half -stunned — as  though  it  were  really  happening  all 
over  again,  just  as  it  had  before — at  the  foot  of  the 
weedy  embankment,  with  the  monstrous  ruin  of 
black  iron  and  steam,  from  which  he  had  been 
miraculously  thrown  unharmed,  hissing  as  though 
in  angry  question  at  the  vast  indignity  of  its  plunge 
and  overturning.  Again  he  had  raised  himself, 
dazed  with  a  mighty  horror,  the  pungency  of  burn 
ing  varnish  in  his  nostrils,  and  had  beheld,  strung 
jaggedly  along  the  foot  of  the  grade,  a  burst  and 
splintered  tangle  of  passenger-coaches,  bitten  by 
little  tigerish  flames  that  roared  and  tore  at  the 
wreck.  Again  his  brain  had  been  burned  by  voices 

254 


DEPOSING  A  FARM  QUEEN 

of  strong  men  tearing  the  dusk  asunder  with  the 
maniac  screeching  of  uttermost  agony;  by  the 
shrilling  of  women;  by  the  piteous  screaming  of 
little  children  jarred  awake  in  hell.  .  .  . 

Icy  perspiration  was  on  the  giant's  brow;  his 
hands  were  pressed  hard  upon  his  ears;  his  pulse 
beat  and  hammered.  But,  as  sleep  unwrapped  from 
him,  the  horrors  of  sight  and  sound  fell  detail  by 
detail  away;  and  Adam  Morton,  slowly  unclenching 
his  hands  and  eyelids,  pulled  himself  into  a  sitting 
position  and  breathed  his  way  to  calm. 

The  moon  lay  in  a  quiet  square  upon  the  center 
of  his  solitary  bed — Mrs.  Adam  having  long  ago 
insisted  upon  the  prerogative  of  a  room  to  herself — • 
and  through  the  narrow  gable  window  the  farmer 
could  see  his  wheat-fields  spread  out  in  the  white 
glow,  rustling  softly  in  the  midnight  breeze  that 
sent  a  little  cool  rillet  of  air  into  the  room  to  dry 
the  sweat  upon  his  brow. 

Adam  sat  for  a  moment  in  his  musing  way,  the 
trouble  in  his  mind  smoothing  under  the  calm 
effluence  of  the  Western  night,  now  at  its  supreme 
noon.  Little  by  little  the  commonplaces  of  the 
room  restored  him  to  the  uneventful  present  and  the 
exigencies  of  the  busy  morrow.  Presently  he  turned, 
dismissing  with  a  final  deep-drawn  breath  that  ter 
rible  memory  upheaval  of  the  past;  and,  drawing 
the  patchwork  quilt  about  him,  lay  down  again 
upon  his  pillow. 

It  was  then  that  voices  sounded,  just  beneath  his 
window — whispers,  but  in  that  hour  bare  of  sound 
carried  up  audibly  over  the  sill. 

255 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

"Are  you  ready?"  The  low-toned  query  came 
guardedly,  in  a  man's  tone. 

"All  ready."  A  woman's  voice  gave  the  answer; 
and  there  came  a  subdued  rustle  of  feminine  drapery, 
followed  by  the  careful  drawing-to  of  a  door  and  a 
nervously  caught  breath  of  relief.  Then  ensued  the  soft 
mutter  and  swish  of  receding  footsteps  in  the  grass, 
every  movement,  even  to  the  woman's  underbreathed 
exclamation  as  she  set  her  foot  accidentally  on  a  round 
stone  in  the  short  thick  weeds  that  grew  at  the  edge 
of  the  chip-pile,  borne  in  minutest  detail  to  the  sharp 
railway  man's  ear  of  the  listener  in  the  bedroom. 

The  black  dog  of  the  Mortons  had  accompanied 
Miss  Clara,  who  was  staying  the  night  with  a  sick 
neighbor  woman;  so  it  was  a  night  of  nights  for 
undetected  midnight  movement  on  the  Morton  farm. 

Beyond  the  barn,  at  the  edge  of  the  bushes,  a 
horse,  a  light  and  slim-legged  hackney,  stood  hitched 
to  a  buggy.  The  horse  was  tied  by  its  halter-rope 
to  the  trunk  of  a  poplar-tree,  at  the  lower  boughs  of 
which  it  nibbled,  thrashing  them  about  in  a  way 
that  roused  the  impatience  of  Ashton  as,  withdrawing 
a  persuasive  arm  from  that  of  Mrs.  Adam  Morton,  he 
came  forward  to  arrange  the  lap-robe  in  the  buggy. 

"Shut  that  bally  noise,  you  brute!"  he  adjured 
the  horse,  in  a  cautious  undertone,  jerking  at  the 
reins.  The  animal,  startled,  let  go  of  its  twig  and 
pricked  an  ear  alertly. 

"Come,  then,  Louise  dear,"  said  the  Englishman. 
He  would  have  laid  his  arm  about  her,  but  she  fended 
him  off  with  her  elbow  and  climbed  unassisted  into 
the  rig.  Ashton  pulled  the  lap-robe  over  her  knees, 

256 


DEPOSING  A  FARM  QUEEN 

tucked  it  in  at  the  side,  and  then  leaned  up  to  her 
under  the  buggy-top,  one  hand  on  hers. 

"Just  one — please!"  he  said,  with  an  amorous 
inflection. 

"No,  no!"  said  the  woman,  pulling  her  hand  away. 
"Undo  the  horse  and  let  us  get  out  of  this!" 

Ashton,  a  little  sulkily,  went  to  the  hackney's 
head,  unsnapped  the  halter-rope,  loosed  it  from  the 
tree,  and,  bringing  it  back  with  him,  threw  it  into  the 
bottom  of  the  buggy.  Then,  gathering  the  reins 
in  his  hands,  he  laid  his  foot  on  the  step,  wondering 
a  little,  as  he  did  so,  at  the  quick  start  of  her  who 
was  to  be  his  companion  on  that  midnight  drive, 
and  heaved  up  to  get  into  the  vehicle. 

It  would,  however,  have  taken  a  stronger  push 
upward  than  'Ashton  was  able  to  give  with  the  toe 
that  rested  on  the  ground,  to  lift  him  into  the  buggy, 
with  that  detaining  vise  of  a  hand  occupying  the 
sudden  position  it  had  taken  upon  his  shoulder,  close 
to  the  collar-bone,  where  it  commenced  by  a  slow 
compression  to  cause  a  pain  that  turned  Ashton 
white.  He  swung  about,  jerked  free,  and  threw 
down  the  lines — which  Adam  Morton,  immediately 
and  just  in  the  nick  of  time,  caught  up  again. 

"Don't  you  know  how  to  handle  a  free  horse  no 
better  'n  that?"  he  said,  deeply.  "Do  you  want  the 
beast  to  run  away  and  kill  her?" 

Then,  stepping  close  to  the  buggy,  in  the  place 
just  vacated  by  the  Englishman,  the  farmer  jerked 
away  the  lap-rug  and  said,  in  a  tone  new  to  the 
woman  who  sat  there,  upright,  pale,  and  still: 

"Get  out  and  go  up  to  the  house!" 
257 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Mrs.  Adam  Morton  climbed  out  without  a  word 
and  went.  Adam  unhitched  the  horse,  led  it  back 
to  its  stall  in  the  end  of  the  stable,  and  drew  off  the 
harness.  Then,  after  looking  to  see  that  the  animal's 
manger  was  filled  with  hay,  he  came  out,  shut  the 
barn  door,  and  put  in  the  wooden  peg  that  did 
duty  as  a  latch.  Having  done  this,  he  turned,  and 
became  aware  of  Ashton,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the 
stone-boat. 

1  'What — you  here  yet?"  he  said,  with  an  expression 
which  the  moonlight  made  unreadable. 

"Yes,"  said  Ashton,  with  something  of  a  sneer; 
"I  thought  you  might  want  me." 

"Well,"  said  Adam  Morton,  pointing  with  straight 
ened  forefinger  to  the  path  leading  through  the 
silverberry-bushes  toward  the  road  allowance,  "it's 
a  fine  night  for  a  walk.  You  take  one — and  don't 
come  back." 

Ashton  got  up,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  walked 
away.  He  had  started  along  the  path  when  Adam 
called  him.  He  turned,  and  saw  the  farmer  throw 
ing  his  smock  down  on  the  stone-boat. 

"I  guess  I  ought  to  lick  you  for  this,"  Adam 
Morton  said.  "Strip!" 

Ashton  was  no  coward.  "I  shall  be  happy  to  give 
you  an  opportunity  to  try,"  he  observed,  removing 
from  his  own  athletic  shoulders,  as  he  came  back, 
the  ragged  Norfolk  jacket,  and  tossing  it  carelessly 
over  the  beam  of  an  old  breaking-plow. 

Mrs.  Adam  Morton  was  sitting,  her  hands  at  her 
face,  as  the  farmer  returned  through  the  moonlight 

258 


DEPOSING  A  FARM  QUEEN 

and  entered  the  house,  hanging  his  coat  on  a  peg, 
and  turning  up  again  from  his  great  arms  the  sleeve 
ends  that  had  fallen  and  swung  raggedly  about  his 
wrists. 

"You  go  to  bed!"  he  said,  speaking  a  little  thickly. 
"Do  you  want  your  boy  to  wake  up  and  find  you 
sitting  here,  at  this  time  o'  night,  with  your  hat  and 
coat  on?  .  .  .  And  listen  to  me — to-morrow  you  get 
up  at  six  and  pitch  in.  That's  been  your  trouble — 
not  enough  to  do." 

Mrs.  Adam  rose  to  her  feet  slowly.  She  stood 
hesitating,  as  though  about  to  speak;  then  she  turned 
and  creaked  up  the  stairs. 

When  she  had  gone  Adam  struck  a  match  and 
looked  at  his  face  in  the  glass  that  hung  above  the 
wash-bench.  His  lips  were  cut  and  bleeding,  his 
skin  a  mass  of  bruises. 

"That  Englishman  can  fight,  all  right!"  he  mur 
mured,  grimly;  "but  I  guess  I  was  a  little  too  strong 
for  him — a  little  too  strong,  sir."  He  hung  up  the 
glass,  put  out  the  match,  filled  the  granite  basin 
with  water,  and  washed  his  face  and  hands — softly, 
so  as  not  to  wake  the  son.  Then  he  went  up-stairs. 

The  moon  had  passed  around  to  the  back  of  the 
house,  and  the  room  of  his  solitary  sleeping  hours 
was  in  shadow  as  Adam  re-entered  it.  He  sat  down 
upon  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  some  bitter  thought 
made  him  bend  forward  moodily  and  prop  his 
bruised  face  in  his  hands. 

He  had  leaned  in  this  attitude  perhaps  five  minutes 
when  the  bed  creaked  softly.  Adam  sat  bolt-up 
right;  then  the  strong  man  commenced  to  shake 

259 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

all  over.  There,  in  the  bed,  awaiting  him,  lay  she 
who  should  never  have  been  away. 

"Addie!"  she  breathed;  and  at  the  sound  of  the 
old  boy-name  of  their  wooing  days  the  big  man 
turned  and,  groping  crazily,  found  her  and  took  her 
in  his  arms. 

"It's  all  right  between  us,  then — is  it,  Lou,  girl? — 
eh,  girl?"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  whisper  hungry  and 
hoarse. 

For  answer  Louise  Morton  laid  her  head  down  on 
its  old  place  between  his  shoulder  and  cheek,  and 
commenced  to  cry. 


XX 

THE   END   OF   A   LONG   HUNT 

ASHTON,  the  Englishman,  had  been  very  rough 
ly  handled — but,  like  the  sportsman  and  sol 
dier  of  fortune  he  had  always  delighted  to  consider 
himself,  he  took  philosophically,  with  no  more  than 
an  occasional  groan  or  mildly  sulphureous  expletive, 
the  circumstances  (i)  that  his  head  was  half  beaten 
off  and  felt  like  one  huge  ripe  boil;  (2)  that  his  chest 
ached  from  armpit  to  armpit,  with  a  particular 
twinge  in  one  section  where  it  felt  as  though  a  rib 
were  cracked;  (3)  that  one  eye  was  so  far  out  of 
commission  that  when,  by  way  of  experiment, 
Ashton  closed  the  other,  the  world  looked  like  a 
glass  of  weak  tea;  and  (4)  that  altogether  he  felt 
as  mauled  and  pummeled  and  rough-housed  and 
manhandled  as  a  carpet  on  dusting-day. 

"Jove!  he  was  a  powahful  brute!"  Ashton  groaned, 
as  he  limped  along  the  dusty  wheel-rut;  "and  then, 
of  course,  too,  he  had  me  at  a  bally  disadvantage, 
messin'  about  in  that  rough-and-tumble  fashion. 
No  science,  no  rules — nothing.  The  beggar  should 
have  been  bawn  a  cart-horse !" 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  Ashton's  creed  that 
is  261 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

it  was,  as  he  had  once  put  it,  "a  man's  prerogative" 
to  be  free  with  women-folk,  regardless  of  what  other 
ties  those  selected  might  chance  to  have,  had  got 
him  into  difficulties;  but  one  or  two  mishaps  could 
not,  of  course,  constitute  an  argument  against  a 
thing  so  obvious.  Besides,  his  designs  had  not  al 
ways  miscarried.  Once,  especially — 

Ashton,  the  Englishman,  lifted  up  his  eyes  and 
saw  before  him  a  steep  hill  which  he  remembered 
climbing.  He  knew  that  at  the  top  of  it  there  would 
be  a  gap  between  two  tall  poplar- trees,  and  that, 
back  on  the  crown  of  the  hill,  one  would  find  a 
solitary  musty  sod  hut,  the  door  fastened  with  a 
lock  of  English  make — the  key  to  which  was  yet 
in  Ashton's  pocket. 

He  had  intended  "turning  in"  for  the  night  under 
a  haycock  in  one  of  the  valley-bottoms  around,  where 
the  farmers  had  been  cutting  the  marsh-grass  on 
which  their  animals  wintered;  but,  in  view  of  the 
slight  ''patching  up"  necessary  after  the  encounter 
with  his  late  employer,  Ashton  decided  to  try  and 
negotiate  the  hill. 

This,  after  some  trouble  and  many  pauses  and 
groans,  he  succeeded  in  doing.  After  sitting  down 
a  moment  at  the  point  where  the  trail  rounded  the 
summit,  he  rose  stiffly  to  his  feet  and  hobbled  on  tow 
ard  the  house.  Fumbling  in  his  pocket  for  the  key, 
resting  groaningly  the  while  on  his  best  leg,  which  was 
none  too  spry,  Ashton  drew  it  out,  jerked  the  string 
off  impatiently,  and  inserted  the  key  in  the  lock. 

Used  as  he  was  to  taking  "pot  luck"  with  circum 
stances,  the  adventurer  had  an  odd,  eerie  feeling  as 

262 


THE  END  OF  A  LONG  HUNT 

the  door  gave  inward  to  his  push  and  he  found 
himself  in  the  close  darkness,  with  its  blend  of 
moldering  smells.  It  was  a  little  like  invading  an 
undertaker's  premises. 

He  struck  a  match,  lighted  a  coal-oil  lamp  whose 
glass  bowl  showed  glinting  dully  from  a  bracket  near 
the  homesteader's  bunk,  and,  with  a  great  sigh  of 
relief,  sat  down. 

In  spite  of  the  forlorn  squalor  of  the  place,  Ash- 
ton  began  to  get  a  vague  home-like  feeling  and  home 
yearning  as  he  looked  around  upon  the  assembly 
of  objects  that  had  each  one  its  tittle  of  suggestive- 
ness  of  that  great  little  island  upon  whose  soil  Ash- 
ton,  for  reasons  best  known  to  himself,  had  not  set 
foot  in  two  decades. 

The  small  dim  lamp  threw  its  light,  as  the  in- 
rushing  daylight  had  on  that  previous  Sunday  morn 
ing  visit,  on  English  papers,  with  broad  many- 
colored  pages  and  plainly  lettered  head-lines ;  it  shone 
on  fowling-pieces,  on  garments,  good  once,  now  in 
all  stages  of  disrepair,  but  undeniably  of  English 
cut  and  material,  flung  helter-skelter  over  backs  of 
chairs  and  in  dusty  corners;  and  on  this  evening  the 
little  lamp,  with  its  slanting  upward  glint  that 
caught  all  crystal  edges  transfigurantly,  revealed 
another  article  of  interest  that  had  somehow  es 
caped  the  eyes  of  the  three  who  had  visited  the 
place  on  that  past  Sunday.  This  was  a  second 
decanter,  of  a  different  pattern  from  the  one  on  the 
table.  With  a  thin  tumbler  beside  it,  this  vessel 
occupied  a  shelf  away  up  near  the  point  where  the 
ceiling  and  the  wall  met. 

263 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Stiff  as  he  was,  Ashton  managed  to  climb  up  on 
the  side  of  the  bunk  and  reach  that  decanter  down. 
He  sniffed  it.  Ah-h!  Ashton,  the  Englishman,  had 
an  educated  sense  of  smell.  He  decanted  out  half  a 
glass  of  the  liquor,  tossed  it  off,  and,  limping  over 
to  the  rickety  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  set 
the  vessel  down  handily  on  the  burnt  red  cloth  and 
helped  himself  to  one  of  those  cigarettes  whose  little 
black-lettered  trade-mark  had  seemed  on  that  pre 
vious  visit  to  touch  some  electric  wire  of  memory. 

The  good  liquor,  taken  on  an  empty  stomach, 
made  the  Englishman  tingle  pleasantly  from  crown 
to  toe.  Blowing  the  cigarette  smoke  luxuriously 
through  his  nostrils,  he  returned  to  the  bunk  in  the 
corner,  stretched  himself  out  thereon,  and,  in  spite 
of  his  aches  and  bruises,  let  out  a  long  and  tranquil 
sigh. 

It  had  been  worth  while,  after  all,  that  pull  up 
the  hill,  to  arrive  at  this.  He  would  smoke  a  little, 
then  he  would  "turn  things  over  a  bit"  and  see  if 
he  could  discover  the  identity  of  this  compatriot, 
this  crazed  Crusoe  of  the  lonely  wild,  who  smoked 
the  same  kind  of  cigarettes  as  had  the  man  who, 
of  all  men  on  earth,  Ashton,  the  Englishman,  least 
desired  to  meet. 

There  was  another  traveler,  recently  arrived  on 
the  Hunt  homestead,  occupying  at  the  moment  the 
abandoned  stable  beyond  the  well.  He  had  been 
asleep  in  the  manger  for  several  hours;  but  there 
were  signs  apparent  that  this  somnolent  interval 
was  about  to  end.  The  first  of  these  signs  was  the 
up  thrusting  of  two  hands,  with  untrimmed  nails, 

264 


THE  END  OF  A  LONG  HUNT 

which,  flying  blindly  and  in  a  clutching  pose  through 
the  air,  encountered  and  gripped  the  manger  rail. 
The  second  sign  was  an  odd  chopped-off  exhalation, 
ending  in  a  sound  that  was,  on  a  small  scale,  not 
unlike  a  lion's  bark.  The  third  and  decisive  indica 
tion  that  the  sleeper  had  awakened  was  the  up- 
rearing  above  the  edge  of  the  manger  of  the  chaotic 
hair,  red  eyes,  and  Grimalkin  visage  of  Henry 
Nicol's  friend,  old  Bill  Hunt  of  the  "homestead 
insanity." 

A  day's  journey  in  a  cattle-car  and  an  afternoon's 
cautious  tramp  along  the  familiar  ravines  and 
through  the  secluding  groves  of  the  Oakburn  and 
Islay  districts  had  covered  the  two  hundred  miles  or 
so  from  the  asylum  in  the  large  town  down  the 
M.  &  N.  to  Hunt's  farm.  So  cunningly  had  he  con 
trived  his  escape  that  the  attendants  were  even 
yet,  eighteen  hours  after  his  disappearance,  search 
ing  the  shrubbery  and  all  other  possible  hiding- 
places  within  the  wall  that  inclosed  the  asylum 
grounds,  in  the  unshaken  belief  that  the  escaped 
patient  had  never  passed  the  gates. 

Arriving  at  his  own  lonely  door  some  time  after 
dark,  and  finding  it  locked,  Hunt  had  gone  over 
to  the  stable,  flung  himself  down  exhausted  in  the 
manger,  and  proceeded,  by  his  usual  way  of  twitch 
and  start  and  mumble  and  occasional  outcry,  to  a 
kind  of  slumber. 

If  the  dreams  of  sanity  are  at  times  dreadful, 
how  shall  it  be  with  the  dreams  of  mania?  What 
ever  Hunt  had  meant  by  his  savage  grip  of  the  pop 
lar  rail  as  he  came  out  of  his  sleep,  whatever  inkling 

265 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

or  intimation  he  had  received  in  that  short  period 
of  uneasy  torpor — it  is  certain  that,  while  his  actions 
in  their  grotesque  and  wild  variety  were  suggestive 
that  his  brain  had  boiled  up  into  what  Henry  Nicol 
would  have  termed  a  "special  voylent"  mood,  the 
general  path  of  his  movements  was  uncannily  and 
ominously  direct  and  definite. 

He  strode  toward  the  door  -of  the  stable,  proceed 
ing  in  a  splay-footed,  lunging  way;  crossed  the  log 
threshold  fumblingly;  and,  turning,  started  up  tow 
ard  his  hut. 

Hunt's  head,  even  in  his  calmer  moments,  was 
never  still,  but  kept  turning  restlessly  from  side  to 
side,  as  though  he  were  looking  by  turns  over 
each  shoulder.  In  his  present  mood,  this  queer 
lateral  movement  had  become  rapid,  jerking,  nervous. 
The  Grimalkin  beard  hissed  as  it  brushed  back  and 
forth  across  the  ragged  coat  lapels,  the  eyeballs 
shooting  into  the  backward  corner  of  each  socket 
as  the  maniac  darted  his  bright  wild  glance  over 
each  shoulder  in  swift  alternation. 

Proceeding  in  a  ramping  way  along  the  weedy 
path,  Hunt  had  arrived  within  three  feet  of  the 
shanty  door  before  he  seemed  to  become  aware  that 
the  place  was  lighted  and  occupied. 

Then  he  halted  dead.  His  head  stopped  at  a 
half -turn,  rigid  as  though  its  turning  mechanism 
had,  as  it  were,  slipped  into  a  notch  and  locked  fast. 
His  eyes  flickered  over  the  bent  head  of  the  man  in 
the  bunk — down  over  the  shoulders — farther  down, 
to  the  slim,  long-fingered  hand  that  held  the  corner 
of  the  English  newspaper. 

266 


THE  END  OF  A  LONG  HUNT 

The  third  finger  of  this  hand,  which,  in  the  posi 
tion  Ashton  lay,  was  close  up  to  the  lamp,  was 
banded  with  a  signet-ring  bearing  a  big  seal  of 
peculiar  shape.  Hunt's  eyes,  reaching  this  seal, 
fixed  and  dilated  till  their  red  rims  lay  round  and 
tight  about  the  circles  of  bloodshot  white  in  which 
the  irises  stood  still  and  glowed. 

For  a  moment  the  homesteader  stood  thus — not 
a  muscle,  not  a  limb  quivering.  Then  slowly  his 
back  straightened;  his  shoulders  squared;  his  head 
came  up  and  back;  his  right  arm  rose  till  it  was  ex 
tended  before  him,  forming  an  angle,  slightly  acute, 
with  the  line  of  his  body. 

There  came  a  slight  click.  Ashton  looked  up — • 
then,  with  the  quickness  of  a  man  who  had  had  to 
move  lightning-like  before  in  many  crises,  he  threw 
himself  forward  and  downward,  rolling  under  the 
edge  of  the  bunk.  As  he  did  so  there  came  a  wicked 
flash,  a  sharp  report,  and  a  kick-out  of  musty  dirt 
from  the  sod  wall  behind  where  Ashton  had  lain. 
Then  the  maniac  was  across  the  cabin  and  upon  him 
like  a  catamount. 

There  is  no  coping  with  the  terrible  wire-like 
strength  of  insanity.  After  a  short  terrific  scuffle  on 
the  floor  the  Englishman,  bleeding,  half -blinded,  and 
almost  mad  now  himself  with  terror  and  pain,  put 
out  all  his  force,  tore  free,  and  rushed  out  of  the 
cabin,  knocking  the  table  over  on  his  way — no  defi 
nite  purpose  in  his  mind  except  to  run,  run,  run! 

Three  elements  combined  to  make  this  death- 
race  infernal — the  hour,  night's  weird  noon,  with  no 
hope  of  finding  any  succoring  brother  of  mankind 

267 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

abroad;  his  pursuer,  a  maniac,  a  demon,  tiger- 
muscled  with  the  dreadful  strength  of  insanity; 
and  memory,  which  in  his  moment  of  greatest  need 
had  taken  all  his  strength  and  spirit  of  resistance 
away  by  its  Judas  trick  of  revealing  Hunt's  identity! 

He  tore  reelingly  down  the  hill,  Hunt  after  him 
and  gaining.  Direction,  distance,  locality — all  were 
lost  qualities.  The  darkness  seemed  first  a  black, 
whirling  mist;  then,  as  his  strength  ebbed,  took  on 
the  semblance  of  dark  water,  in  which  he  moved 
laboriously  as  a  diver  on  some  sea-bottom. 

A  badger  burrow  suddenly  received  one  of  the 
chased  man's  lurching,  reckless  feet.  As  he  tum 
bled  forward  his  ankle  snapped.  Regardless  of  the 
agony,  he  tore  the  foot  free,  proceeding  onward  at 
a  grotesque  hop,  his  hands  jibbing  up  and  down. 
At  the  edge  of  a  slough — a  dark  round  water-hole 
hedged  with  willows — he  fell,  and  Hunt  got  him. 

Sir  Humphrey  Lonsdale,  baronet,  stepped  in  over 
the  threshold  of  his  Western  home,  where  the  little 
lamp  still  burned  on  the  bracket  next  the  bunk.  He 
set  up  the  table  that  had  been  knocked  over,  and 
on  it  he  cast  down  a  bloody,  knotted  stick. 

He  was  straight  and  calm  now.  His  head  had 
not  resumed  its  uncanny  lateral  motion.  His  eyes 
were  sane,  slightly  weary,  infinitely  sad. 

He  drew  up  a  chair  with  a  broken  back,  setting  it 
beside  the  table ;  then  brought  over  the  lamp ;  then 
went  to  a  shelf  at  the  side  of  the  room,  took  down  a 
revolver,  slipped  into  the  chamber  a  single  cartridge, 
and  laid  the  weapon  on  the  table  near  the  lamp, 

268 


THE  END  OF  A  LONG  HUNT 

Next,  from  a  trunk  in  the  corner  of  the  shanty 
he  drew  two  packages — an  album  wrapped  care 
fully  in  green  chamois,  and  a  neat  leather  shaving- 
case.  He  brought  these  over  to  the  table. 

Removing  his  coat,  he  picked  up  a  hand-mirror, 
propped  it  against  the  bowl  of  the  lamp,  sat  down, 
clipped  off  the  gray,  unkempt,  Grimalkin  beard,  and 
afterward  shaved  with  great  care;  then  went  and 
washed  face  and  hands;  and,  lastly,  parted  and 
combed  back  his  hair. 

Then,  and  not  till  then,  did  he  reach  over,  soft 
ly  and  with  trembling  fingers,  for  the  album.  Un 
wrapping  it  tenderly,  he  turned  till  he  came  to  a 
photograph,  which  he  detached  from  its  paste 
board  clip  and  set  up  before  him  on  the  table. 

The  portrait  was  that  of  a  young  woman,  graceful 
rather  than  actually  pretty,  with  loose,  fair  hair 
and  the  dependent,  drooping,  irresolute  little  face 
that  invites  disaster.  Lonsdale  leaned  over  and 
looked  down  at  it;  and  the  picture,  as  pictures  will 
when  looked  at  steadily  and  long,  gazed  back  at 
him  and  at  last  seemed  to  smile. 

Then,  reflectively,  Lonsdale  reached  for  the  re 
volver,  and,  still  leaning,  looking  and  smiling  ten 
derly  at  the  picture,  which  continued  to  smile  back 
companionably,  he  put  the  barrel  of  the  weapon 
thoughtfully  against  his  temple,  tightened  his  finger 
in  a  happy,  dreamy  way  on  the  trigger — and  pres 
ently  went,  by  the  shortest  route,  to  rejoin  his  young 
wife,  Lady  Alice,  formerly  of  the  curacy  of  Barlow, 
who  had  died  bearing  Ashton's  child. 


XXI 

THE   INDIAN  EYE 

ERNIE  BEDFORD,  as  he  descended  the  stairs 
from  his  bedroom,  thought  the  talk  which 
came  in  indistinct  fragments  through  the  partition 
from  the  Kernaghans'  breakfast-table  seemed  sub 
dued.  As  he  emerged  into  the  living-room,  he  noted 
an  air  of  grave  reflectiveness  in  the  manner  of  Mr. 
Kernaghan  and  Henry  Nicol. 

"Oh,  Teacher — "  began  Master  George  Kerna 
ghan,  excitedly. 

"George,"  interrupted  Mr.  Kernaghan,  laying 
down  his  fork  slowly  and  eying  his  son,  "who  was 
askin'  you  for  a  song?" 

"N-nobody,"  stammered  Master  George,  "but — " 

"But  nothin1,"  said  Mr.  Kernaghan,  briefly;  "an1 
if  I  hear  another  chirp  out  o'  you  you'll  get  your 
pants  dusted — good.  Mind  that,  son." 

Master  George  subsided,  almost  bursting  a  blood 
vessel  with  the  effort  of  swallowing  that  which  he 
had  been  about  to  say. 

"Anything  wrong?"  said  Ernie,  as  he  sat  down 
before  the  bowl  of  porridge  Mrs.  Kernaghan  brought 
him  from  the  pot  on  the  back  of  the  stove. 

270 


THE  INDIAN  EYE 

* '  School-teacher, ' '  said  Mr.  Kernaghan,  deliberately, 
"you  are  one  o'  the  best  friends  Adam  Morton's 
folks  has  got — so  I  understand.  Well,  if  you  are, 
you'd  better  go  over  there  in  the  rig,  with  the  missis, 
right  after  breakfast." 

Ernie  looked  a  little  suspiciously  from  the  in 
scrutable  face  of  his  host  to  that  of  Henry  Nicol, 
who  sat  with  his  eyes  on  his  plate. 

"Is  this  some  joke?"  the  young  man  inquired, 
warily,  as  he  commenced  to  eat  his  porridge. 

Henry  Nicol  pushed  back  his  chair  and  rose  from 
the  table.  "I'll  go  an'  hitch  up  then,  Tom,  eh?" 
he  said. 

Mr.  Kernaghan  nodded;  and  Henry,  reaching 
gravely  for  his  hat,  went  out.  As  the  door  closed  be 
hind  him  Mrs.  Kernaghan  brought  her  shawl  and  hat 
from  the  bedroom  and  commenced  to  put  them  on. 

Mr.  Kernaghan  stuck  his  pipe  between  his  teeth, 
unlighted.  Then  he  said  to  Master  George,  Master 
William,  and  Miss  Jennie:  "Clear  out,  you  young 
ones.  Jennie  an'  George,  let  the  cows  out  o'  the 
corral  and  take  'em  down  to  the  pasture.  Bill,  you 
hustle  some  feed  down  to  thame  hens.  Jump  now 
— all  o'  you!" 

After  the  room  was  cleared  the  master  of  the  Ker 
naghan  farm  pulled  his  chair  up  facing  the  teacher. 

"Schoolmaster/'  he  said,  "the  Mortons  is  in  a 
bad  way  this  Sunday  mornin'.  That  Englishman 
that  was  workin'  for  them  was  found  dead  about 
five  or  six  hours  ago — pretty  near  tore  to  pieces, 
they  say — in  a  slough  on  the  corner  of  Adam's  farm. 
It's  pretty  common  talk  around  this  settlement — 

271 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

and  o'  course  it's  reached  Oakburn  long  before  now, 
too — that  this  Ashton  was  kind  of  rushin'  Adam's 
wife;  and  thame  dunderheads  in  town  has  sent  out 
and  arrested  Adam,  no  less,  for  the  murder  of  his 
hired  man. 

"Now,  I  don't  know  who  done  it;  but  this  I 
know,  Schoolmaster — 'tis  no  work  of  Adam  Mor 
ton's.  If  thon  man  had  been  killed  by  a  blow,  I'd 
say  Adam  might  have  done  it,  accidental,  in  a 
fight;  for  he's  a  terrible  fist  to  him,  Adam.  But 
the  Englishman  was  all  kind  of — kind  of  chewed 
up,  like,  they  say,  as  if  some  wild  beast  had  been 
at  him.  The  only  way  they  could  tell  who  it  was 
— he  was  ruint  that  bad — was  by  some  letters  in  his 
pocket. 

"He'd  have  to  fight  consecutive  with  about  ten 
men  as  strong  as  Adam,  and  get  ten  lickin's  hand- 
runnin',  to  be  beat  up  as  bad  as  he  was,  if  the  thing 
was  done  by  human  bein's — so  it  looks  to  me  as 
though  a  gang  done  it.  But  who  would  they  be?" 

"Couldn't  some  animal  have  done  it?"  said  Er 
nie  who,  thinking  of  poor  Clara,  had  pushed  his 
breakfast  away,  unable  to  eat  any  more. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Kernaghan;  "'tis  known  that 
men  had  a  hand  in  it,  for  a  man  was  seen  comin' 
away." 

"Seen!"  exclaimed  Ernie,  jumping  up;  "then 
they  surely  must  know  who  the  man  was.  Every 
body  knows  everybody  else,  in  this  settlement." 

Mr.  Kernaghan  smiled  a  little  sorrowfully. 

"Young  Dug  Harrison,  the  one  who  saw  it,  has 
pretty  good  eyesight,  Schoolmaster;  but  'tis  more 

272 


THE  INDIAN  EYE 

than  eyesight — 'tis  second-sight,  no  less,  he'd  need — 
to  swear  to  some  one  he  just  got  a  glimpse  of,  from 
about  fifty  yards  away  in  the  bush,  about  one  or 
two  o'clock  on  a  dark  night  like  last  night  was — so 
dark  that  young  Dug  himself  had  got  lost,  only  a  mile 
from  home.  You  see,  Dug  was  huntin'  Harrisons' 
calves;  an'  when  he  found  out  he'd  lost  his  bearin's, 
like,  he  clumb  into  a  haycock  and  covered  up  there 
to  sleep  till  daylight.  Well,  after  he'd  b'en  asleep  a 
little  while,  he  was  woke  up  by  some  men  fightin' — 
an7  then,  after  a  while,  the  noise  stopped  and  he 
seen  one  o'  the  men  walkin'  away.  Dug  he  wanted 
to  get  home,  f'r  the  b'y  was  scared  clear  through. 
So  he  started  out,  blubberin'  and  pokin'  along  in 
the  dark — and  in  a  minute  he  stumbled  over  this 
Ashton  lyin'  in  the  grass  by  the  slough,  an'  struck 
a  match  to  see  what  it  was  he'd  ran  into.  Well, 
what  he  saw  by  that  match  frightened  him  so  much 
he  started  off,  runnin'  like  a  deer;  and  first  thing 
he  knew  he  bunted  into  Harrisons'  own  clothes-line 
post,  an'  there  he  was  at  home.  Well,  Dug  he  was 
so  keen  to  be  the  first  one  to  tell  about  the  murder 
that  he  pulled  his  young  brother  out  o'  bed,  an' 
thame  two  young  wans  hitched  the  pony  up  to  the 
buggy  an'  took  the  lantern  so's  they  could  keep  the 
trail;  and  the  two  o'  them  come  blandandherin'  into 
Neil  Collingwood's  about  an  hour  before  daylight. 
Neil  he  came  out  right  away,  with  Dr.  Thomas,  the 
coroner,  an'  Jim  Wood,  the  undertaker,  follerin'  along 
in  another  rig,  an'  thame  fellys  has  been  as  busy  as 
a  swar-rm  o'  bees  ever  since.  They  was  all  that 
sure  it  'd  be  Adam,  from  what  they'd  heard  about 

273 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Ashton  an*  Adam's  wife,  that  they  fetched  a  warrant 
out  with  them  an'  took  the  body  an'  Adam  an'  all 
back  with  them  on  the  wan  trip. 

"School-teacher,  thame  men  knows  as  much 
about  handlin'  a  murder  case  as  I  do,  an'  that's 
precious  little.  But,  blundher  an'  all  as  they  may, 
'tis  my  belief  they'll  never  fix  that  on  Adam,  not 
afther  the  inquest.  Still  an'  all,  you'll  just  go  over 
with  the  missis,  will  ye  not,  an'  hearten  up  thon  lit 
tle  colleen — for  she's  in  sore  need  of  it  this  day!" 

"But,"  said  Ernie,  struck  by  a  sudden  idea,  "if 
Adam  didn't  do  it,  as  you  believe — and  I  believe  too 
— -he  must  have  been  home  in  bed  when  it  happened. 
You  say  it  was  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
Couldn't  he  prove  he  was  home,  and  clear  himself 
that  way,  by  what  they  call  an  alibi?" 

"School  -  teacher,"  said  Mr.  Kernaghan,  more 
soberly  than  he  had  yet  spoken,  "that  brings  up  a 
p'int  I  wasn't  goin'  to  say  anything  about,  for  thame 
that  told  me  may  have  given  me  the  facts  wrong, 
an'  I  knew  you'd  get  the  straight  of  it  over  at 
Adam's.  But  now,  since  you  asked  me,  I'll  tell  you 
about  the  thing  that  makes  the  case  look  blacker 
for  Adam  than  anythin'  I've  told  you  yet. 

"Last  night,  about  midnight,  Adam  was  woke  up 
with  a  bad  dhream  or  somethin',  and  he  heard  some 
body  talkin'  outside  the  house,  an'  there  was  his 
missis  an'  Ashton  gettin'  off  together,  with  that  fast 
drivin' -horse  of  Adam's  hitched  up  to  the  buggy. 
Well,  Adam  told  the  constable  he  just  stopped  'em, 
and  sent  the  missis  inside,  and  then  give  this  Ashton 
a  lickin'  and  sent  him  on  his  way.  Adam  he  allows 

274 


THE  INDIAN  EYE 

Ashton  was  maybe  bruised  up  a  little,  but  says  he 
was  all  right  the  last  he  saw  of  him,  goin'  down 
toward  the  north  trail.  Nobody  at  Morton's  knows 
just  what  the  time  was  when  Adam  come  into  the 
house  again,  after  the  fight;  for  none  of  'em  hap 
pened  to  look  at  the  clock.  All  Adam  could  say 
was  that  he  guessed  it  would  be  awhile  after  twelve. 
Well,  young  Dug  Harrison  says  it  was  a  quarter 
after  one  by  his  nickel  watch  when  he  left  the  hay 
cock  that  time,  just  before  he  run  on  to  Ashton, 
dead.  So  there  y'  are! 

"Well,  that's  the  story  as  they  give  it  to  me.  I 
don't  take  no  responsibility  for  th'  truth  of  it,  wan 
way  or  the  other.  Here's  the  rig  now,  Schoolmaster. 
You  betther  do  the  drivin',  for  thon  Punch  horse  he's 
too  sthrong  in  the  mouth  for  the  missis  to  handle." 

Dave  Morton  had  gone  to  take  the  cows  down  to 
the  pasture  as  Ernie  and  Mrs.  Kernaghan  drove  up 
to  the  Morton  stable,  so  Ernie,  after  helping  his 
companion  out  of  the  buggy,  unhitched  the  Punch 
horse  himself  and  took  it  into  the  stable.  Then, 
with  an  odd  blend  of  sensations  in  his  mind,  he  made 
his  way  up  to  the  farm-house,  whither  Mrs.  Ker 
naghan  had  preceded  him. 

He  heard,  as  he  approached  the  kitchen  door,  a 
mighty  clatter  of  utensils,  as  of  some  one  vigorously 
at  work;  and  a  thrill  of  admiration  was  added  to 
all  the  other  feelings  he  had  toward  Clara  Morton, 
for  the  indomitable  little  house-manager  who  would 
not  even  accept  grave  trouble  as  an  excuse  for  pro 
crastination  of  the  duties  of  the  day. 

But  in  the  doorway  he  paused,  halted  sharply  by 
275 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

his  amazement.  The  worker  was  not  Clara,  but 
Mrs.  Adam  herself — the  indolent  Mrs.  Adam,  who 
had  never  used  to  rise  till  noon,  and  then  only  to 
read  and  mope. 

And  how  the  woman  did  work!  Clara^  had  often 
praised  to  Ernie  her  mother's  latent  capabilities — 
but  any  imaginary  picture  he  might  have  formed  as 
a  result  of  that  true  and  faithful  little  daughter's 
praise  was  wholly  set  back  in  the  shade  by  the 
reality.  Things  seemed  to  be  moving  as  in  a  motion- 
picture  reproduction  of  kitchen-cleaning — dishes  to 
glide  out  of  the  dish-pan,  the  tea-towel  to  flutter 
and  whip  magically  over  them,  and  the  clean,  shin 
ing  pile  of  china  on  the  oilcloth  cover  of  the  work- 
table  to  grow  by  twos  and  threes  instead  of  indi 
vidual  dishes.  The  stove  had  been  black-leaded; 
pots  scoured;  milk-pails  polished  dry  and  bright 
and  put  out  in  the  sun  to  air.  Mrs.  Adam  seemed, 
in  fact,  to  have  reached  nearly  the  finishing-point 
of  her  morning's  work  single-handed;  and  even 
efficient  little  Mrs.  Kernaghan  stood  a  moment  at 
a  loss,  until  the  sight  of  a  crumb  or  two  under  the 
breakfast-table  told  her  that  the  sweeping  had  not 
been  done  yet,  and  she  went  over  behind  the  pan 
try  door  to  get  the  broom. 

Mrs.  Adam  Morton,  turning  around  to  empty  the 
water  out  of  her  dish-pan,  faced  Ernie,  and  he  looked 
at  her  curiously.  Her  eyes  bore  traces  of  crying, 
but  her  general  expression  was  brave  and  bright. 
Her  loose  and  rather  ill-fitting  house  dress  could 
not  conceal  the  splendid  lines  of  her  figure.  She 
suggested  to  Ernie  the  mistress  of  some  big  house, 

276 


THE  INDIAN  EYE 

come  down  for  an  hour  to  the  kitchen  to  show  the 
servants  how  to  work. 

"Good  morning,  Teacher,"  she  said.  "I'm  glad 
you  came.  Clara's  asleep.  She's  been  up  since 
early  this  morning,  and  she's  worn  out." 

"Where  is  she?"  said  Ernie,  rather  grufHy.  He 
felt  it  would  be  the  task  of  more  than  a  day  or  two 
to  forget  the  past  Mrs.  Adam  in  the  present  one,  no 
matter  whether  the  change  was  permanent  or  just 
a  temporary  spurt.  "Did  she  go  back  to  bed?" 

]"No;  she's  in  there  on  the  lounge,"  said  Mrs. 
Adam,  looking  at  him  a  moment  as  if  she  was  about 
to  say  something,  but  finally  turning  again  to  her 
work.  Ernie  saw  her  shoulders  rise  and  quiver  as 
though  to  a  sob,  but  he  concluded  it  must  have 
been  her  characteristic  bored  sigh. 

He  had  been  so  frequent  a  caller  at  the  Mortons' 
that  he  had  long  lost  the  habit  of  standing  on  cere 
mony — -so  now,  without  asking  permission,  he  passed 
on  into  the  sitting-room,  tiptoeing  so  as  not  to  wake 
Clara.  He  need  not,  however,  have  taken  the 
pains;  for  Clara,  as  he  approached  the  side  of  the 
couch,  sat  up  with  a  wan  little  smile.  Her  eyes 
were  red  and  heavy  with  long  weeping.  Her  hands 
— those  small  hands  that  had  been  so  tireless  and 
so  capable — lay  loosely  open  and  nerveless  in  her 
lap.  Ernie  could  not  know  yet  that  two  hours  ago 
the  long-burdened  little  mother-spirit  of  the  Morton 
household  had  collapsed  utterly — seeming  to  those 
who  watched,  but  did  not  understand,  to  do  so  all 
at  once — and  had,  as  a  simple  saying  of  Wheat-land 
has  it,  "cried  her  eyes  out." 
19  277 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Ernie,  as  he  looked  down  at  her,  had  to  fight 
manfully  against  the  temptation  to  take  her  in  his 
arms,  in  full  view  of  those  in  the  kitchen  and  in  spite 
of  the  thing,  whatever  it  was,  that  had  held  him  from 
her  so  long.  But,  in  face  of  the  world  of  regard 
he  had  for  this  small  and  resolute  person,  his  nerve 
failed  him;  and  his  impulse,  that  he  had  thought 
big  enough  to  fit  a  giant,  funneled  into  speech  in 
this  trickling  sentence: 

"Will  I — go  away  and  let  you  sleep  some  more — 
dear?"  Ernie  could  not  have  helped  adding  that 
"dear,"  even  if  he  had  known  that,  for  doing  so, 
he  was  going  to  be  sent  away  and  told  never  to  come 
back  again. 

"No-o.  I'm  not  sleepy — I  guess."  Was  this  list 
less,  wandering  voice  Clara  Morton's?  Ernie  had  al 
most  to  glance  at  her  again  to  be  sure  that  it  was. 

He  set  his  hat  on  the  table  and,  rather  diffidently, 
sat  down  beside  the  girl,  putting  his  knuckles  up  to 
his  cheek  and  feeling  at  a  loss  for  words  as  he  gazed 
down  at  the  carpet.  His  feet  he  thrust  back  under 
the  valance  of  the  lounge;  but  there  his  right  heel 
encountered  a  thin  iron  brace  that  galled  it,  so  he 
shuffled  that  foot  out  again.  As  it  came  into  view 
he  noticed  something  small  and  white  being  pro 
pelled  along  in  front  of  his  boot-toe — some  object 
that  had  evidently  rolled  under  the  lounge  and  so 
escaped  the  broom.  It  looked  like  a  bit  of  white 
crayon  such  as  he  used  at  school;  and  at  first  he 
eyed  it  with  a  merely  casual  interest,  wondering 
vaguely  how  it  had  found  its  way  to  its  present 
location. 

278 


THE  INDIAN  EYE 

But  presently,  as  he  gazed  at  it,  his  eyes  lighted 
and  widened.  The  white  thing  was  tipped  with 
black,  like  an  ermine-tail.  It  was  a  half -burnt 
cigarette.  Ernie  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  His 
heart  pounded  to  the  piping  of  an  idea  that  had 
marched  into  his  brain. 

The  tiny  paper  cylinder  had  a  certain  little  black 
trade-mark  that  started  a  sudden  recapitulation, 
reaching  back  to  a  Sunday  afternoon  when  a  chance 
look  had  shown  him  a  man  oddly  perturbed  behind 
the  smoke  of  a  fellow-cigarette  to  this.  Perhaps 
that  queer,  lonely  sod  house,  standing  three  miles 
away  to  the  northward,  held  some  clue  to  Ashton's 
end !  Ernie  remembered  that  Mr.  Kernaghan  quoted 
Adam  as  having  said  he  last  saw  the  Englishman 
going  across  toward  the  north  trail. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Clara,  who,  even  through  her 
languor,  had  noted  his  change  of  expression. 

"  Never  mind  now,"  said  Ernie,  in  a  much  more 
sprightly  way  than  he  had  previously  spoken.  He 
got  up,  and  picked  his  hat  off  the  table.  "I  think 
I'll  go  for  a  walk.  I'll  be  back  this  afternoon. 
Good-by — and  try  and  get  a  little  more  sleep." 

He  patted  her  hand — that  little  hand! — how  it 
made  his  heart  beat  to  touch  it! — and  was  gone. 

Sioux  Ben  Sun  Cloud,  out  for  a  morning  consti 
tutional  after  having  left  his  lady  to  tidy  up  the 
tepee  and  see  to  the  cayuses,  had  been  oddly  at 
tracted  by  a  wild  spoor  he  found  in  the  grass — wild, 
that  is,  in  the  manner  of  its  making,  not  in  the 
thing  which  made  it.  The  thing  which  made  it 

279 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

had  been  nothing  more  than  an  ordinary  every-day 
masculine  boot,  considerably  worn.  But  such  steps! 
Sioux  bent  down  curiously  and  examined  them, 
puffing  at  his  clay  pipe. 

"Losh!"  he  said — using  this  interjection,  however, 
in  an  even  tone,  without  any  emotional  inflection — 
"yon  man  no  run  like  yon  for  naething.  I  go  see." 

Following  the  traces  easily  from  the  foot  of 
Hunt's  hill,  where  he  had  discovered  the  first  print 
as  mentioned,  Sioux  Ben  reached  the  slough  where 
the  murder  had  been  done.  This  was  how  it  was 
that  Ernie,  following  an  impulse  to  take  a  look  at 
the  scene  of  the  murder  on  his  way  over  to  Hunt's, 
found  an  immense  flannel-shirted  and  blue-trousered 
figure  sitting  with  a  dreamy  expression  under  the 
willows  that  grew  around  the  muddy  stamped  arena 
of  that  terrible  midnight  struggle. 

"Fechtin'  nae  good,"  said  the  figure,  looking  up 
apologetically — for  Sioux  Ben  had,  in  fact,  been 
thinking  the  opposite  and  returning  in  memory 
over  the  trails  of  perhaps  fourscore  years  ago,  as 
he  had  read  the  story  of  those  tracks  at  the  edge 
of  the  mud-hole  with  the  sure  eye  of  woodcraft. 
"One  man  crazy-mad,  no  canny.  No  much  fight — • 
just  kill." 

Ernie's  heart  commenced  to  hammer  with  excite 
ment.  "Yes,  he  said,  priming  the  old  Indian,  "there 
was  a  murder  here  last  night — •" 

Sioux  Ben  interrupted,  leaning  over  and  laying 
his  finger  on  his  immense  ear-lobe.  "Ear  bad,"  he 
reminded;  "skirl  like — in  close." 

Ernie  bent  down  and  "skirled"  in  the  big  ear. 
280 


THE  INDIAN  EYE 

"There  was  a  murder  here  last  night,"  he  yelled; 
"yes — murder.     Adam   Morton  arrested." 

"Aye,"  said  Sioux  Ben,  imperturbably.  "Adam 
— I  ken  yon  Adam.  He  no  kill  this  fellow.  Mur 
derer  crazy  man — no  canny — pound  other  fellow  on 
his  heid  with  big  stick  after  he  die.  Then,  Adam, 
he  live  yon  way;  but  mon  wi'  stick,  he  run  here  frae 
the  north  way.  Come — I  show  you." 


XXII 

THE    MOTOR    EXPLOIT    OF    JIMMY    LOCHINVAR    YOUNG 

BOB  McLEOD  had  been  "cleaned  out"  four  times 
since  he  had  started  business  in  Oakburn;  but 
he  had  always  fallen  on  his  feet.  He  was  that  type 
of  financier  known  as  "a  plunger." 

Matthew  Rodgers's  business  career  might  have 
been  represented  by  a  line  containing  no  more  un 
dulations  than  the  calm  horizon-rim  of  the  prairie 
country  from  which  he  drew  his  steady  and  stable 
patronage;  but  the  prairie-profile  line  would  not 
have  illustrated  R.  McLeod's  financial  ups  and 
downs.  His  would  have  been  better  exemplified 
by  a  diagram  like  the  circulation-chart  of  a  political 
party  newspaper  in  a  country  that  loves  a  change. 

But  R.  McLeod  was  a  man  of  ideas ;  and,  although 
he  was  not  greatly  perturbed  to  see  trade  begin  to 
trickle  back  again  toward  the  One  Price  House 
north  of  the  track,  still  it  "put  him  in  mind,"  as 
he  would  have  said,  of  playing  a  card  he  had  had 
up  his  sleeve  for  a  long  time.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
however,  he  need  not  have  kept  his  counsel  regarding 
this  contemplated  move  in  the  game  of  business  in 
Oakburn ;  for,  even  if  he  had  gone  over  and  actually 

282 


A  MOTOR  EXPLOIT 

suggested  it  to  Matthew,  the  proprietor  of  the  One 
Price  House  would  have  shaken  his  head. 

The  thing  was  too  new.  Matthew  was  a  Conser 
vative,  in  principle  as  well  as  in  politics.  His  motto 
was  "Let  the  other  man  try  if  first." 

Briefly,  this  new  idea  of  R.  McLeod's  was — an 
automobile  agency.  There  were  several  men  in  and 
around  Oakburn  who  owned  automobiles;  but  they 
had  purchased  from  agencies  in  the  city,  after  seeing 
their  prospective  cars  tried  out  during  an  exhibition- 
week  visit,  or  on  some  trip  when  they  had  combined 
business  and  pleasure.  R.  McLeod  reasoned  that, 
if  Oakburn  district  had  contained  farmers  willing 
to  pay  the  high  freight  on  a  single  automobile  out 
from  the  city,  it  must  contain  many  more  farmers 
who  would  practically  buy  on  sight  a  smart  new 
car  already  set  up,  waiting  in  an  Oakburn  window  to 
hit  smartly  the  home  trail,  with  an  experienced 
salesman-chauffeur  ready  to  show  the  customer  how 
to  "run"  his  new  purchase. 

Jimmy  Young  stood  in  R.  McLeod's  new  auto 
salesroom,  of  which  he,  in  view  of  his  deep  and 
almost  scornful  familiarity  with  all  that  moved 
by  gasolene,  had  been  made  the  presiding  genius. 
He  saluted  John  Beamish,  who  had  just  entered  the 
door — saluted  him,  it  may  be  added,  with  the  more 
cordiality  in  that  Jimmy  had  just  seen  Miss  Mabel 
get  out  of  the  Beamish  democrat  contemporane 
ously  with  her  father,  and  enter  R.  McLeod's  grocery 
department— looking  for  somebody  whom  Jimmy 
had  the  best  of  reasons  for  knowing  she  would  not 
find  there. 

283 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

"It  is,  sir,"  said  Jimmy,  throwing  out  his  hand 
with  a  flourish  toward  the  big  glass  window  against 
which  the  sun  broke  in  a  flood  of  light,  "one  hell  of 
a  fine  day — ain't  it?  Now,  what  can  I  do  for  Mr. 
Beamish  this  mornin'?" 

"Oh,  I  was  just  passin',"  said  John  Beamish, 
casually,  "and  I  happened  to  notice  them  things,"  in 
dicating  the  three  automobiles,  resplendent  in  their 
bright  enamel  and  their  clean  gray  tires. 

"Well,  you  made  good  use  o'  your  eyes,  sir — yes, sir, 
you  done  that!"  roared  Jimmy,  nasally,  laying  the 
hand  of  affection  on  the  long  black  radiator  of  the 
nearest  and  biggest  car,  and  jerking  his  other  thumb 
toward  the  front  seat  with  its  luxuriously  tilted 
cushion.  "Climb  up  there,  if  you  like,  an'  set  down. 
It's  just  as  cheap  as  standin'  up,  an'  twice  as  com- 
f 'table.  Eh?" 

Beamish  climbed  in,  a  little  awkwardly. 

"Move  over,"  directed  Jimmy.  "I  think  I'll 
set,  too.  We  may  as  well  be  sociable,  Mr.  Beamish 
—huh?" 

John  Beamish  did  not  immediately  respond. 
Never  in  all  his  phlegmatic,  carefully  moving  "figur 
ing"  existence  had  he  been  a  prey  to  quite  the  same 
sensation  as  came  over  him  when  he  cautiously  let 
himself  back  on  that  tilted  cushion.  He  could  re 
member  vaguely  the  feeling  he  had  had  when  he 
sat  on  the  seat  of  his  first  sulky-plow,  years  ago, 
after  many  seasons  of  tramping  along,  muddy- 
booted,  in  the  furrow;  but  that  was  as  nothing  to 
the  feeling  that  possessed  him  now. 

He  thought,  as  he  sat  there,  of  the  neighbor  who 
284 


A  MOTOR  EXPLOIT 

so  ostentatiously,  once  or  twice  a  week,  threw  open 
his  exhaust  in  order  that  the  noise  of  his  passing 
by  John's  gate  might  attract  the  farmer's  atten 
tion. 

John  Beamish  had  never  been  a  town-going  man 
habitually.  It  cost  money  to  go  to  the  city;  and 
John  could  not  see  that  he  profited  thereby  in  pro 
portion  to  his  expenditure.  He  was  always  glad  to 
get  back  to  his  own  corner  of  the  world,  where  he 
was  master  and  mover.  Why  should  he  spend 
money  in  making  himself  uncomfortable  for  a  week 
or  so  in  a  place  where  he  had  to  ask  his  way  about, 
to  trust  to  others,  to  defer  to  the  convenience  of 
others,  to  learn?  He  was  too  old  for  that. 

So  his  home-keeping  had  kept  him  out  of  the  way 
of  automobile  show-rooms,  and  this  was  the  first 
day  he  had  really  been  tempted. 

"These  things  are — pretty  expensive,  I  s'pose?" 
he  observed,  running  his  hand  diffidently  up  the 
brace  of  the  hood. 

"No,  sir."  Jimmy  smiled,  and  his  eyes  glowed. 
He  turned  about  until  his  knee  bumped  John 
Beamish's.  The  farmer  instantly  drew  his  leg 
away,  as  though  he  were  afraid  some  overpowering 
magnetism  might  pass  from  one  limb  to  the  other. 
But  Jimmy  pursued  the  coyly  withdrawing  knee  and 
imprisoned  it  by  laying  his  muscular  young  palm 
upon  it. 

"Expensive!"  he  repeated,  loudly.  "They're  dirt 
cheap — yes,  sir,  dirt  cheap.  I  don't  see  how  they 
make  'em  for  the  price,  Mr.  Beamish — honest,  I 
don't.  Now,"  Jimmy  reached  his  hand  forward 

285 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

and  pressed  a  button,  "what  d'you  s'pose  the  price 
of  this  here  little  beauty  is?" 

"Twelve  hundred?"  ventured  Beamish. 

"Twelve  hundred!"  whooped  Jimmy.  "Twelve 
hundred  dollars  for  this  machine!  Aw,  come  off, 
now,  Mr.  Beamish!  An  automobile  company  ain't 
a  charity  ins'tution.  They  ain't  out  just  to  make 
people  happy.  No,  sir — all  the  fairy  godmothers  is 
dead,  in  this  world.  Why — twelve  hundred  dollars ! 
Jumping  Jehoshaphat,  Mr.  Beamish;  it  costs  more 
'n  that  to  make  'em!" 

Beamish  did  not  reply.  He  was  looking  from  side 
to  side  nervously.  Jimmy's  vociferations  had  not 
quite  managed  to  drown  the  sound  of  a  certain  low, 
tigerish  breathing,  to  the  palpitation  of  which  the 
great  car  vibrated  from  bumper  to  tonneau.  John 
Beamish  felt  as  if  he  was  going  to  be  sprung  upon 
and  devoured. 

"What's  that?"  he  said,  hoarsely. 

' ' That  ?  What  ?"  demanded  Jimmy.  "  Oh !  Why, 
she's  a-goin' .  That's  the  electric  starter  I  shoved  on. ' ' 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?"  Beamish  somewhat  sheep 
ishly  leaned  back  again  in  his  seat.  "I  thought 
you  wound  them  up  with  a  kind  of  crank,  or  key." 

"They  done  that  in  the  dark  ages,"  said  Jimmy, 
"but  they  don't  do  it  no  more.  No,  sir.  All  you 
got  to  do  is  to  press  that  little  button,  slap  on  your 
clutch,  an'  away  you  go — lickety-scat !  Seventy 
mile  an  hour,  if  you  like.  Why,  an  arrioplane 
couldn't  hardly  catch  this  here  car,  Mr.  Beamish, 
if  you  give  her  anything  like  a  fair  head-start." 

"What's  the  price?"  said  Beamish. 
286 


A  MOTOR  EXPLOIT 

"Would  you  like  to  have  another  guess,  sir," 
said  Jimmy,  playfully,  "or  shall  I  tell  you?  She's 
just  eighteen  hundred,  Mr.  Beamish." 

"Well,"  said  Beamish,  throwing  his  leg  out  of  the 
car  and  preparing  to  descend,  "I'll  look  in  again." 

"All  right,"  said  Jimmy,  shrugging  his  shoulders; 
"all  right,  sir.  But  this  is  our  opening  day — the 
first  time  cars  was  ever  shown  for  sale  in  town  here — 
an'  when  the  rest  o'  the  farmers  gets  in,  this  place  will 
be  jammed  to  the  doors.  You  wun't  get  a  look  in 
— no,  sir,  not  a  look  in.  ...  But  see  who's  comin' ! 
Ain't  that  your  daughter,  Mr.  Beamish?  Now  let's 
get  a  lady's  opinion  on  that  car.  I  tell  you  what 
I'll  do" — Jimmy  sank  his  voice — "we'll  ast  her 
what  the  car's  worth,  an'  whatever  price  she  names 
I'll  sell  you  the  car  for.  If  she  says  over  eighteen 
hundred,  I  win;  an'  if  she  names  under  eighteen 
hundred  you  win!" 

"No,  no,"  said  John  Beamish,  stolidly.  "I  never 
do  business  on  that  sort  of  a  scale.  But  I — I  tell 
you  what  I'll  do,  young  fellow.  I'll  give  you  six 
teen  hundred." 

"Like  hell  you  will,"  said  Jimmy,  promptly; 
"then  the  difference  would  come  out  o'  my  wages, 
an'  who  would  pay  the  Chinaman  an'  the  hairdresser. 
But  see  here.  I  got  another  proposition  to  make 
to  you:  I'll  bet  you  the  two  hundred  dollars 
difference  I  sell  that  car  before  noon;  an'  I'll  bet 
you  another  two  hundred,  even  money,  I  sell  them 
whole  three  cars  before  the  day's  out.  This  is 
Saturday,  an'  you  know  yourself,  Mr.  Beamish, 
everybody  comes  into  town  Saturday  afternoon." 

287 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

"Sixteen  fifty's  my  limit,"  said  John  Beamish. 

"Goin'  up,"  said  Jimmy,  a  little  sarcastically. 

At  this  moment  Miss  Mabel  Beamish  came  in. 
She  acknowledged  Jimmy's  extravagantly  formal 
greeting  (the  farmer  was  looking!)  with  a  little  dip 
of  the  head,  very  formal,  too.  Then,  as  John 
Beamish  stepped  up  to  take  another  look  at  the  car 
that  was  the  subject  of  discussion,  both  young 
people  changed  their  expressions  in  a  flash,  slipped 
together,  and  squeezed  hands. 

It  was  after  this  hastily  exchanged  squeeze  that 
Jimmy,  for  a  moment,  waxed  thoughtful,  and  pres 
ently  came  out  of  this  brief  period  of  self-communion 
with  something  young  and  intrepid  shining  in  his 
eyes. 

"Mr.  Beamish,"  he  said,  "I'll  take  you  on  that — 
that  price  you  named  a  minute  ago.  Sixteen-fifty, 
cash !  I  want  you  to  have  this  car  so  bad  I'm  willing 
to  pay  a  hundred  and  fifty  out  o'  my  own  pocket 
to  make  up  the  price  for  you.  You  give  me  your 
check  for  sixteen-fifty,  an'  I'll  give  Bob  my  check 
for  one-fifty  onto  that,  an'  I'll  get  you  a  receipt 
from  him  for  eighteen  hundred,  the  price  of  the 
car.  If  he  asts  me  what  I'm  chippin'  in  for,  I'll 
just  tell  him  I  owe  you  the  money.  Now — that's 
fair,  ain't  it?" 

"Ye-es,"  said  Beamish,  as  he  slowly  drew  out  his 
check-book,  took  another  look  at  the  car,  and  then 
proceeded  laboriously  to  write  out  his  check.  ' '  You 
young  fellows  have  very  little  use  for  money,  any 
way,  haven't  you?  You  can  soon  make  it  up  some 
other  way." 

288 


A  MOTOR  EXPLOIT 

John  Beamish  made  these  suggestions  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  check  he  was  drawing,  in  order 
to  see  that  the  line  between  the  "Sixteen  hundred 
fifty"  and  the  "xx/ioo"  was  sufficiently  heavy  to 
make  it  impossible  to  raise  the  check  without  the 
help  of  a  pair  of  scissors  and  a  paste-pot.  It  was 
perhaps  well  for  his  repose  of  mind  that  his  con 
centration  upon  the  task  in  hand  prevented  his  ob 
serving  the  vigorous  pantomime  of  Master  Jimmy 
Young — who,  pulling  back  his  coat-sleeve  and  cuff 
from  a  sinewy  young  wrist,  might  have  been  seen 
to  advance  his  knuckles  yearningly  to  within  about 
an  inch  of  the  farmer's  head  behind;  and  then, 
with  a  considerable  manifestation  of  reluctance  and 
uncertainty,  withdraw  them  and  shove  his  fist  in 
his  pocket  to  keep  it  out  of  the  way  of  temptation. 
Miss  Mabel,  who  had  turned  a  little  shyly  and  was 
looking  out  of  the  window,  did  not  see  this  expressive 
dumb  show,  either. 

Beamish  finished  writing  his  check,  read  it  over 
at  least  three  times,  tore  it  slowly  out  of  the  book, 
glanced  at  the  car,  then  again  lovingly  at  the  check; 
and  finally  passed  it  over  to  Jimmy. 

It  may  be  mentioned  that  John  Beamish,  who 
was  the  wariest  of  men,  had  thoroughly  posted  him 
self  as  to  Oakburn  auto  prices  and  values  by  casual 
but  diligent  inquiries  among  those  of  his  neighbors 
who  owned  cars,  made  at  various  times  during  his 
business  or  social  trips  of  the  last  three  months 
about  the  neighborhood ;  and  knew  quite  well  that  he 
was  getting  a  brand-new,  high-powered  car  for  two 
hundred  dollars  under  the  price  f.  o.  b.  Oakburn. 

289 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

Another  thing  which  the  reader  is  here  let  in 
upon  is  that  a  certain  traitorous  effect  of  light  and 
shadow  on  the  windshield  of  that  car  had  caused 
to  be  reflected  there,  for  sly  John's  edification, 
exactly  and  clearly  as  in  a  mirror,  the  recent  hand- 
squeeze  exchanged  between  Jimmy  and  Mabel. 
That  incident,  although  a  surprise  to  Beamish, 
was  evidently  a  partial  explanation  of  Jimmy's 
generosity. 

Therefore,  John  Beamish 's  hesitation  in  hand 
ing  out  his  check  was  not  due  to  any  doubt  as  to 
his  bargain,  but  merely  to  the  love  he  bore  that 
bank  account  of  something  like  $99,000,  which 
by  this  check  he  was  setting  back  to  a  mere 
$97,350. 

Jimmy,  with  an  exuberance  which  puzzled  the 
farmer  a  little,  grabbed  the  check,  slammed  the  door 
behind  him  uproariously,  and  cantered  up  the  street 
to  the  branch  bank.  There,  after  first  getting  the 
A  to  L  ledger-keeper  to  stamp  an  irrevocable  "Ac 
cepted"  across  the  face  of  the  Beamish  check, 
Jimmy  went  to  the  savings  wicket  and  drew  out 
the  whole  of  his  own  modest  account  of  six  hundred- 
odd  dollars.  Counting  out  one  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  from  the  roll  of  tens  and  twenties,  and 
slipping  the  balance  into  his  trousers  pocket, 
where  it  made  a  bulge  the  size  of  a  five-cent 
orange  (half -mitigated,  however,  by  the  loose  peg 
shape  of  the  leg  of  Jimmy's  nether  garment),  he 
crossed  the  street  in  four  hops  to  settle  with  R. 
McLeod. 

"Gude  work,  laddie!"  said  that  large,  tweed- 
290 


A  MOTOR  EXPLOIT 

breeched  financier,  patting  Jimmy  on  the  shoulder 
with  a  great  freckled  hand  as  he  passed  over  the 
receipt  for  Beamish.  "First  thing  ye  know,  I'll 
be  advancin'  yur-r  pay  on  ye." 

Three  minutes  later  Jimmy  Young  was  back  in 
the  new  glass-fronted  salesroom.  "There  y'  are, 
sir,"  he  yodled;  then,  as  Miss  Mabel,  smiling  like 
a  basket  of  chips  with  pleasure  at  the  new  family 
possession,  skipped  over  with  the  playful  idea  of 
climbing  into  the  seat  of  father's  new  auto,  and  to 
that  end  wrestled  prettily  but  vainly  with  the  hasp 
of  the  fore  door,  Jimmy  added,  drawing  in  his  breath, 
expanding  his  nostrils,  and  slipping  his  natty  straw 
hat  to  the  back  of  his  head: 

"Now,  sir,  we'll  try  out  the  car.  First,  with  your 
permission,  Mr.  Beamish,  I'll  take  Miss  Beamish 
yonder  for  a  joy-ride  down  the  Toddburn  trail  to 
get  the  little  car  limbered  up.  Then  I'll  come  back 
an'  learn  you  how  to  run  her — an'  I'll  g'ar'ntee,  Mr. 
Beamish,  that  in  an  hour  or  so  after  we  start  out 
I'll  have  you  so's  you  can  drive  her  out  home  your 
self,  fast  's  you  like  to  go!" 

The  idea  of  Miss  Beamish  accompanying  Jimmy 
on  the  trial  trip  did  not  exactly  make  a  hit  with 
John  Beamish;  but  before  he  could  frame  slow- 
voiced  objection  thereto  the  car,  purring  at  a  tre 
mendous  rate,  was  backing  out  of  the  rear  door; 
and  the  farmer,  still  wrestling  with  the  first  four 
words  of  his  veto,  beheld  the  automobile  shoot,  in 
a  sun-blaze  of  shining  black  enamel,  out  into  the 
street. 

A  roar,  the  grind  and  "plung"  of  a  lever  thrust 
291 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

dexterously  forward,  and  the  new  Beamish  automo 
bile  flew  like  a  great  swooping  bird  down  the  trail. 
John  Beamish  stood,  his  mouth  still  doubtfully 
half-open,  till  it  had  sped  up  the  farther  bank  of 
Oak  Creek  like  a  big  cinder  of  burnt  paper  blown 
up  a  hill,  and  had  disappeared,  with  a  saucy  up- 
kick  of  dust,  down  the  long  slope  toward  Todd- 
burn. 

A  little  over  an  hour  after,  a  short,  thick,  bullock 
of  a  man,  with  a  slow  red  anger  burning  in  his  face, 
appeared  at  the  door  of  R.  McLeod's  office.  "Your 
young-lad  clerk,"  he  said,  "has  got  a  damned  queer 
idea  of  time.  Does  he  think  I  got  all  week  to  wait, 
with  nobody  watchin'  them  six  hired  men  out  on 
the  farm?  Now  I'm  a-going  out  home,  in  my  horse- 
rig.  When  he  gets  back  tell  him  to  drive  that  ma 
chine  out  to  my  place  as  quick  as  he  knows  how  to 
get  there.  ...  I'll  see  that  he  hoofs  it  back  into  town 
them  ten  miles,  too!" 

"What's  amiss  now?  What's  amiss?"  queried 
R.  McLeod,  promptly,  putting  his  pen  behind  his 
ear,  getting  off  his  stool,  and  standing,  a  tower  of 
solicitude,  above  John  Beamish. 

With  many  expletives  and  heavily  expressive  jerks 
of  his  thick  arm  the  farmer  told  him;  adding,  with 
a  note  of  malice:  "An*  there's  your  salesroom  down 
there  crowded  with  customers,  an'  nobody  to  wait 
on  'em.  I'd  fire  a  man  like  that,  if  I  had  him,  so 
quick  he'd  think  he  was  always  fired." 

"I'll  fire  him — don't  ye  fret  about  that,"  promised 
R.  McLeod,  fervently,  as  he  strode  away  down  the 

292 


A  MOTOR  EXPLOIT 

store  with  his  loose  striped  shirt-sleeves  billowing 
in  the  breeze  of  his  going. 

But  Jimmy  Young,  late  of  Oakburn,  had  already 
discharged  himself  and  shaken  forever  from  his  feet 
the  dust  of  that  village  of  his  short  sojourn;  and 
now,  with  a  protective  arm  about  Mrs.  Jimmy 
Young,  newly  made  in  that  name  by  the  doubtful, 
puzzled,  but  none  the  less  efficacious  Toddburn 
minister,  he  sat  on  the  red-plush  seat  of  a  railway 
carriage  headed  back  to  the  city.  His  job  with  the 
Great  Beaver  Trust  Company,  so  Darius  Hell 
Whaley  had  written  him  repeatedly,  waited  for  him 
whenever  he  chose  to  take  it,  at  one  hundred  and 
fifty  a  month ;  so  Mabel  and  Jimmy  were  not  worry 
ing  over  their  future. 

Meanwhile,  John  Beamish's  new  automobile, 
loaded  on  a  car  at  Toddburn  station,  with  the  car 
riage  back  to  Oakburn  charged  to  the  consignee, 
awaited  the  evening  freight-train,  which  would  de 
liver  it  in  Oakburn  about  the  same  time  that  the 
passenger-train  delivered  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Young  into 
the  arms  of  the  city. 

Next  day  at  noon,  little  stooped  Mrs.  Beamish, 
transfigured  and  rebellious  in  her  passion  of  grief, 
thrust  a  crooked-lined  letter  under  the  eyes  of  the 
ox-faced  man  who  sat  at  the  table,  in  a  brown  study 
of  calculation. 

Then,  flinging  her  apron  over  her  face,  she  cried 
regardlessly  and  stormily  for  her  baby-girl  of  long 
ago;  while  John  Beamish,  after  reading  and  push 
ing  aside  disdainfully  the  crooked-lined  note  with 
20  293 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

its  several  remorseful  tear-blots,  commenced  to  busy 
himself  with  the  formulation  of  some  excuse  for 
docking  the  wages  of  his  six  hired  men  sufficiently 
to  even  him  up  on  the  amount  he  had  been  set  back 
by  the  freight  on  one  high-powered  touring  automo 
bile,  first-class,  collect,  from  Toddburn  to  Oakburn. 


XXIII 

GOOSEBERRY 

WHAT'S  amiss,  Henry  ?"  said  Mr.  Kernaghan, 
coming  into  his  kitchen  after  a  Sunday-morn 
ing  survey  of  the  promising  yellow  patches  on  his 
fields,  and  discovering  his  paid  colleague  half  under 
and  half  out  from  under  the  kitchen  table — Henry's 
exposed  portion  bearing  a  not  distant  resemblance 
to  half  of  a  capital  "M"  and  seeming,  in  fact,  to  in 
vite  the  rousing  slap  which  Mr.  Kernaghan  promptly 
and  courteously  bestowed  upon  it. 

"Ouch!"  said  Henry,  from  under  the  table,  in  a 
somewhat  plethoric  tone.  "I  don't  need  no  weather 
prophet  to  tell  me  crops  is  lookin'  good,  Tom.'* 

"What's  wrong  with  my  floor?"  remarked  the 
householder,  as  he  lit  his  pipe. 

"Nothin',"  Henry  replied,  "except  that  it's 
a-hidin'  the  only  collar-button  I  own.  Aha!  here 
she  is!" 

Inclining  the  sector  of  the  "M"  cautiously  away 
from  that  portion  of  the  unseen  whence  Mr.  Kerna 
ghan 's  voice  had  come,  Henry  threw  on  the  reverse 
lever,  backed  out,  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"What  use  would  ye  be  havin'  f'r  a  collar-but- 
295 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

ton,  annyway?"  Mr.  Kernaghan  inquired.  "Is  the 
missis  not  kapin'  the  buttons  sewed  on  y'r  shirt 
for  ye?" 

"You  can't  button  a  white  choker  on  one  o'  them 
bone  buttons,"  said  Henry,  his  elbows  in  the  air  as 
he  wrestled  with  his  shirt  collar,  "without  you  ruin 
it  with  the  scissors  first." 

"White  choker,  is  it?"  repeated  Mr.  Kernaghan, 
gaily.  "Take  an  old  married  man's  advice,  now, 
an'  don't  ye  go  sparkin'  th'  girls.  First  thing  ye 
know,  wan  o'  them  '11  marry  ye,  an'  then  what  '11 
ye  do?" 

"We  white  our  necks  an'  we  black  our  boots," 
Henry  returned,  evasively  and  sententiously .  ' '  This 
here  life's  a  kind  of  a  funny  thing,  ain't  it,  Tom? 
Where's  the  School-teacher?" 

"Over  near  thon  scrub  ag'in'  th'  granary,"  an 
swered  Mr.  Kernaghan,  reaching  a  farm  paper  from 
the  shelf,  "pickin'  a  daisy  for  his  buttonhole,  the 
divil.  He's  as  bad  as  you  are,  Henry — worse, 
maybe.  I  wish  I  knew  what  yous  was  up  t'l." 

"Oh,  we're  just  a-goin'  for  a  little  drive,"  said 
Henry,  as  he  set  on  his  hat  and  took  a  last  look  in 
the  glass,  stroking  his  wombat  whiskers  and  tilting 
one  shoulder  up  with  a  slight  swagger — "just  a  little 
drive.  I'd  like  to  dodge  that  milkin'  job  ag'in  to 
night,  Tom,  if  it's  all  right." 

"Well,  I  guess  we  can  spare  ye,"  rejoined  his  em 
ployer,  good-humoredly.  "Ye're  no  dam'  good, 
annyway;  the  cows  don't  like  ye,  an'  they  know. 
Never  trust  a  man  that  can't  look  a  cow  betune  the 
eyes." 

296 


GOOSEBERRY 

"So  long,  Tom,"  Henry  responded,  with  a  grin,  as 
he  went  out.  Twenty  minutes  later  he  and  Ernie 
Bedford  were  jogging  along  the  trail  behind  the  roan 
Charley  horse,  toward  the  farm  of  Mrs.  Molly 
Bryans. 

"Molly  'ain't  b'en  very  well,  lately,"  Henry  said, 
resting  the  whip-handle  on  the  dashboard  so  that 
the  roan  Charley  horse,  who  was  well  on  in  years 
and  somewhat  indolently  inclined,  would,  when  he 
cocked  his  off  eye  upward,  see  the  "snapper" 
dangling  just  above  his  right  ear  and  realize  the 
necessity  of  maintaining  a  decent  appearance  of 
reasonable  speed.  "She's  had  to  have  help  in  the 
house.  Her  bronchitis  come  on  her  ag'in,  that 
wet  spell  we  had." 

"That's  too  bad,"  said  Ernie;  "but  she'll  soon 
throw  it  off,  a  strong  worn — a  strong  girl  like  her." 

"Well,  it  keeps  her  a-wrasslin',  sometimes,  throw- 
in'  it  off,"  Henry  observed;  then  he  reiterated,  look 
ing  at  the  teacher  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  "but 
she's  got  help  with  her — good  help." 

"Who's  helping  her?"  inquired  Ernie  Bedford, 
casually. 

"Oh,  I  dunno" — Henry  looked  away,  smiling  to 
himself — "a  Chinaman,  maybe." 

A  turn  around  a  poplar-grove  brought  them  in 
sight  of  the  Bryans  tarm  and  the  barb-wire  fence 
that  inclosed  it.  The  Charley  horse,  seeing  that 
they  were  approaching  a  gate,  first  scrutinized  anx 
iously  the  "snapper"  above  his  head;  then,  his  eye 
warily  on  Henry's  whip  hand,  began  in  an  experi 
mental  way  to  slacken  his  pace. 

297 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

"All  right,  boy,"  said  Henry,  withdrawing  the 
whip  and  dropping  it  into  its  holder,  "let  her  die 
down,  if  you  want  to." 

The  elderly  roan,  with  a  sigh  that  was  almost 
human,  lapsed  into  a  long-legged,  splay-footed  walk, 
stopping  promptly  and  punctually  twelve  feet  from 
the  gate,  and  dropping  his  head  to  improve  the 
shining  moments  cropping  a  mouthful  of  grass  at 
the  roadside. 

"There  must  be  some  mule  in  him,"  said  Henry, 
whimsically,  as  he  gave  the  teacher  the  reins  and  got 
out  to  open  the  portal  to  the  homestead  of  Bryans, 
"or  he  wouldn't  go  after  them  thistles  the  way  he 
does.  I  guess  there's  one  of  them  what  you  call 
bar-sinisters  in  his  fam'ly  tree,  somewhere  away 
back.  The  len'th  of  his  ears,  too,  especially  when 
he  hears  you  say,  'Whoa!'  kind  o'  gives  him  away." 

Mrs.  Bryans's  bull,  an  austere  animal,  at  whose 
tether-picket  Henry  looked  very  carefully  as  he  led 
the  Charley  horse  through  the  gateway,  stood  at 
the  edge  of  a  slough  just  inside  the  fence,  his  head 
up  and  his  dewlap  shaking  a  little  as  he  switched 
off  the  flies. 

"He  don't  like  me  to  slam  the  gate,"  Henry  ex 
plained,  as  he  climbed  a  little  hastily  into  the 
buggy.  "I  s'pose  he  thinks  it  sounds  as  though  I 
thought  I  owned  the  place  when  I  sling  on  the 
flourishes  too  much  a-comin'  in.  I  guess  Molly 
'ain't  told  him  about  her  and  me  yet,  or  he  wouldn't 
let  me  apast  at  all.  He  won't  let  nobody  but  her 
so  much  as  look  at  him." 

"By  the  way,"  said  Ernie,  "that  reminds  me  that 
298 


GOOSEBERRY 

I  am  in  an  awkward  position  this  afternoon.  I  am 
a  third  party.  What  are  you  and  Mrs.  Bryans  going 
to  do  with  me  for  the  day?" 

"Oh,  don't  you  worry  about  that  none,  School 
teacher,"  Henry  responded,  smiling  again  the  same 
way  as  he  had  smiled  once  before  during  their  drive. 
"Never  trouble  trouble  till  trouble  troubles  you.  If 
th'  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  we  can  send  you  out 

Fwith  the  Chinaman  to  pick  gooseberries." 
The  Bryans  stable  was  now  in  view,  with  the  hay- 
pen  alongside  and  a  galaxy  of  little  red-and-white 
calves  twinkling  in  the  green  meadow  beyond.  Mrs. 
Bryans's  house  stood  on  a  knoll  to  the  left,  with  a 
neat  row  of  maples  behind;  and  on  the  other  side 
of  those  maples,  so  Henry  told  Ernie  Bedford,  "the 
finest  garden  of  currant-bushes  and  gooseberry- 
bushes  in  this  country,  School-teacher." 

Mrs.  Bryans,  whose  indisposition  had  not  succeeded 
in  banishing  much  of  the  color  from  her  hale  red 
Irish  face,  got  up  from  the  door-step  where  she  had 
evidently  been  sitting  expectantly,  and  came  for 
ward  to  meet  them,  her  hands  folded  across  the 
waistband  of  her  apron. 

"Betther  late  than  never,  by  hokey!"  she  ex 
claimed,  in  a  broad,  welcoming  Erin-go-bragh  accent 
behind  which  even  the  pronounced  provincialism 
of  Mr.  Tom  Kernaghan  might  have  run  and  hidden. 
"An'  is  it  y'rself  then,  Harry,  at  last,  darlin'?  My, 
my,  moi!  An'  'tis  the  school-teacher,  no  less,  that 
ye've  brought  along  too.  Here  Mikie!"  to  the  Bar- 
nardo  (whose  name  was  Clarence).  "Sure  don't 
stand  with  y'r  mouth  o-open  an*  the  flies  just 

299 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

swar-rmin'  around  thryin'  to  get  int'l  it.  Take  the 
gentlemen's  horse!" 

With  this,  Mrs.  Bryans  slipped  one  arm  through 
Henry's  and  the  other  through  the  teacher's,  and 
led  them,  almost  trotting  with  the  speed  of  her 
rapid  and  robust  propulsion,  toward  the  house. 

"You  feelin'  smarter  to-day,  Molly?"  said  Henry, 
setting  his  hat  on  one  side  and  mopping  his  fore 
head  with  the  handkerchief  in  his  free  hand. 

"Sure  an'  why  would  I  not  feel  smart,  as  ye  call 
it,  knockin'  shoulthers  with  you  again,  darlin'?" 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Molly,  jigging  a  little;  then,  turning 
to  Ernie  Bedford,  with  a  poke  that  all  but  staved 
in  two  of  his  ribs,  she  added,  bending  down,  "An', 
faith,  the  little  man  will  not  mind  us,  so  he  won't, 
for  'tis  him  that  knows  what  it  is  himself — an'  then, 
too,  haven't  I  got,  out  there  in  the  garden,  pickin' 
a  bowl  o'  berries  for  our  suppers,  the  swatest 
little—" 

"Chinaman,"  put  in  Henry. 

"Chinaman,  Chinaman,  is  it?"  Mrs.  Bryans 
swung  her  big  smiling  face  toward  the  speaker. 
Henry's  elbow  nudged  her  softly,  and  the  whole 
side  of  his  face  next  her  answered  to  a  sudden  con 
traction  of  one  eye. 

"Yes,  bedad,"  she  twinkled  around  again  to 
Ernie,  "the  swatest  little  hay  then  Chinaman  be- 
twane  here  an'  Thralee.  But  'tis  a  big  bowl,  alanna, 
an'  a  little  Chinaman;  so,  by  your  leave  an'  Harry's, 
I'll  just  show  ye  where  he  is,  an'  ye  can  run  along 
an'  help  him  with  his  pickin'."  With  these  words 
Mrs.  Molly  Bryans  piloted  Ernie  to  a  gap  in  the 

300 


GOOSEBERRY 

maples  where  a  well-worn  path  ran  through.  *  'There, 
then,"  she  said,  discharging  him  with  a  playful  shove 
that  propelled  Ernie  Bedford  about  seven  feet  on 
his  way;  "just  follow  your  nose,  alanna,  an'  you'll 
not  miss  him.  Speak  him  fair  whin  ye  find  him, 
for  he's  that  sensitive — that  sensitive — aw,  murther 
'n  Irish,  the  lad  '11  be  the  death  o'  me,  so  he  will,  if 
he  kapes  on  lookin'  at  me  that  way?"  and  with  a 
volcanic  chuckle  which  she  could  no  longer  restrain 
Mrs.  Molly  flung  after. the  teacher  a  bit  of  a  twig 
that  stuck  in  his  hat,  and  bounced  back,  shaking 
with  mirth,  to  join  Henry  Nicol. 

Ernie,  his  dignity  a  little  ruffled,  made  his  way 
somewhat  vaguely  along  the  path.  He  walked 
through  the  maple  hedge,  and  found  himself  at  the 
top  of  a  sunny  westward-facing  slope  laid  out  as  a 
fruit  and  vegetable  garden.  On  one  side  were  rows 
of  potatoes  and  turnips,  with  smaller  beds  of  early 
vegetables  that  had  now  been  pretty  well  denuded. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  garden  grew  ranks  of  laden 
berry-bushes,  and  at  the  end  of  one  of  these  Ernie 
caught  a  gleam  of  white. 

Thrilled  with  an  odd  sense  of  expectancy,  he 
sauntered  down  between  the  rows  of  bushes,  glanc 
ing  every  now  and  then  toward  the  patch  of  white 
over  which  the  shrubs  dipped  and  quivered  spas 
modically  to  the  industry  of  the  hidden  berry-picker. 

The  rustling  of  the  leafage  hid  the  sound  of  Er 
nie's  approach,  so  that  he  was  barely  three  feet  away 
when  a  hand,  reaching  up  after  a  richly  berried 
twig,  slipped  full  into  his  view  between  the  leaves. 

That  hand — Ernie  would  have  known  it  anywhere, 
301 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

with  its  fine  little  square-tipped  fingers  and  the  few 
pin-points  of  freckles  dotting  the  back  of  it.  He 
would  have  known  it  anywhere,  even  if  it  had  not 
been  almost  immediately  followed  into  view  by  a 
forehead  with  a  gentle  curved  prominence  at  the 
eyebrows;  a  nose  rounded  at  the  point  and  flecked, 
like  the  hand,  with  tiny  freckles;  eyes  that  widened 
with  a  little  shy  start  as  they  saw  Ernie ;  and  cheeks 
that  colored  finely  as  the  eyes  for  a  moment  fell. 

It  was  with  a  sudden  sensation  of  tumultuous 
leaping  and  gamboling  within  his  chest,  in  the  region 
to  the  immediate  left  of  the  sternum,  that  Ernie 
beheld  Clara  Morton's  quick  coloring  and  con 
fusion  as  she  rose  from  behind  Mrs.  Bryans's  berry- 
bushes  and  faced  him.  It  was  a  good  many  days 
now  since  she  had  first  begun  to  hold  him  coldly 
at  arm's-length,  with  that  sudden  unexplained 
change  of  attitude.  She  had  not  relaxed  from  it 
even  on  that  Sunday  afternoon  when,  thrilling  with 
the  news  he  bore  and  the  thought  of  the  joy  it  would 
give  her,  he  returned  from  his  walk  with  Sioux  Ben 
to  tell  her  that  her  father  was  as  good  as  cleared 
from  the  charge  laid  by  the  blundering  constable. 

"S-so  you're  the  Chinaman!"  stammered  Ernie. 

Miss  Clara  added  a  little  look  of  mystification  to 
her  previous  start  and  blush. 

"What  Chinaman?"  she  said,  quaintly  and  softly. 

"Is  your  bowl  full  yet?"  said  Ernie,  his  heart 
thumping  double  time,  "because  if  it  isn't  we'll  sit 
down  and  fill  it.  Won't  we?" 

"It— it  isn't  full,"  said  Clara,  "not  nearly.  I'm 
just  started.  These  gooseberries — " 


GOOSEBERRY 

"These  what?"  demanded  Ernie,  as  he  came 
around  the  end  of  the  row  of  bushes,  squatted  down 
beside  the  girl,  and  then  glanced  up  at  a  laden 
branch.  "Why — why,  so  they  are!  I  thought 
maybe  that  was  part  of  the  joke,  too." 

"What  joke?"  said  Clara,  with  a  comically  serious 
inflection,  widening  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  a  joke  of  Henry  Nicol's,"  said  Ernie,  "his 
and  Mrs.  Bryans's.  They  said  there  was  a  China 
man  out  in  the  garden  picking  gooseberries." 

"I'm  sure  I'm  flattered,"  Miss  Clara  remarked, 
demurely  and  a  little  coldly. 

"Well,  they  said  it — not  me,"  Ernie  retorted,  with 
more  haste  than  grammar.  "You  don't  think  I'd 
make  a  fool  of  a  joke  like  that,  do  you,  surely?" 

"I  know  you  wouldn't,"  said  Miss  Clara,  simply. 

"But  the  best  part  of  what  they  said  is — is  to 
come."  Ernie  went  on,  his  heart  stirring  into  brisk 
action  again.  "They  said  I  was  to  help  him — 
that  is,  you — fill  the  bowl." 

"It  will  take  us  a  long  time."  Clara,  holding  her 
eyes  away,  reached  up  for  a  branch,  drew  it  down, 
and  stripped  it  patteringly  into  the  white  bowl. 
Ernie  watched  the  process  attentively;  then  he 
drew  down  the  top  of  the  bush  nearest  him,  stripped 
a  few  small  stunted  green  berries  from  one  of  the 
stems,  and  let  the  shrub  go.  Instead,  however,  of 
flying  back  into  place,  it  stuck  on  something,  and 
then,  as  Ernie  bent  to  free  it,  sprang  up  suddenly 
and  unexpectedly,  and  hit  him  in  the  eye. 

"Oh!  you've  hurt  yourself!"  Clara,  her  mother 
ing  instinct  uppermost,  let  go  of  another  branch  she 

303 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

was  in  the  act  of  drawing  toward  her,  set  the  bowl 
out  of  the  way,  moved  over  beside  Ernie,  and,  rising 
on  one  knee,  softly  drew  away  the  hand  the  teacher 
was  holding  against  the  injured  organ. 

"Don't  rub  it,"  she  said.  "You'll  make  it  worse. 
Let  me  see." 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Ernie  Bedford,  a  little  gruffly, 
resisting  the  attempt  to  pull  his  hand  away.  An 
eye  that  was  watering  copiously,  and  probably  in 
the  first  stages  of  turning  black,  was  not  an  attrac 
tive  feature  to  have  studied  at  close  range  by  a  pair 
of  clear  gray  orbs  in  which  one  especially  wished  to 
look  his  best.  Then,  after  a  moment,  he  blurted, 
looking  at  her  through  the  good  eye:  "It — it — 
Clara,  it  isn't  my  eye  that's  bothering  me  most, 
right  now.  It's  another  part  of  me." 

The  touch  of  Clara's  fingers  was  undoubtedly 
what  had  brought  about  this  heady  revelation  of  an 
ill  less  easily  curable  than  a  black  eye ;  and  as  Clara, 
in  the  sudden  rich  salmon-color  that  flowed  into 
Ernie's  face,  identified  his  ailment,  she  loosed  like 
a  hot  cake  the  hand  she  had  grasped  so  impulsively, 
and  reached  again  for  the  berry-bowl. 

Ernie's  tongue  refused  to  move  any  more  at  the 
moment;  but,  in  lieu  of  words,  his  hand  flew  after 
Clara's  like  lightning  and  caught  it  before  it  reached 
the  white  dish  that  lay  beyond  her  knee — caught  it, 
and  drew  hand  and  owner,  without  the  exertion  of 
one-tenth  the  strength  Ernie  had  been  prepared  to 
exert  if  necessary,  into  his  arms. 

At  the  end  of  this  minute — or,  to  be  exact,  this 
barely  four  seconds — of  delicious  yielding,  Clara 

304 


GOOSEBERRY 

suddenly  tensed  and  commenced  to  pull  herself  free. 
This  movement  followed  a  rather  crazy  attempt  on 
Ernie's  part  to  put  his  palm  under  her  chin  and 
pull  up  her  face  to  be  kissed.  Love-making  is  easy 
when  one  is  not  very  certain  he  is  in  love;  but  when 
he  is  certain  he  is  apt  to  behave  more  like  a  fever 
patient  than  a  man  in  his  sober  senses  who  wants 
to  the  very  strong-beating  heart  of  him  to  convey  a 
consciousness  of  his  love-glow  to  the  dearest  little 
person  under  all  the  scope  of  the  sun. 

Ernie's  arms  grew  weak  as  the  girl's  eyes,  coldly 
bright  as  two  stars  of  December,  lifted  themselves 
in  a  look  from  which  all  the  sweet  shyness  of  a 
moment  before  had  fallen  away. 

He  had  violated  the  conventions  of  the  first  em 
brace.  He  knew  it,  with  an  infinite  sinking  of  the 
heart,  as  she  thrust  his  wrists  from  her  waist  and 
rose  to  her  feet. 

"How  dare  you?"  said  Adam  Morton's  daughter. 
Her  cheeks  were  red;  but  it  was  the  red  of  fire,  not 
roses. 

He  sat  dejectedly,  his  hands  lying  in  a  rather  fool 
ish  attitude  where  they  had  dropped  when  she 
pushed  them  away.  He  made  no  attempt  to  speak 
or  to  follow  her  as  she  stepped  past  him  icily  and 
walked  away  up  the  path  behind. 

Ernie's  mind,  after  he  was  left  alone,  became  a 
kind  of  dull,  gloomy  blank,  in  which  he  lost  all  sense 
of  time.  It  might  have  been  ten  minutes,  or  it 
might  have  been  an  hour,  when  he  heard  a  footfall 
behind.  He  knew  the  feet  that  were  making  the 
light,  soft  impact  on  the  garden  path  were  approach- 

305 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

ing  this  time,  not  going.  He  knew  that  the  feet 
were  hers.  But  he  did  not  turn  nor  look. 

There  was  silence  behind  him  for  a  moment — 
silence,  and  then  the  patter  of  berries  dropped  in 
the  bowl.  In  a  minute  or  two  the  berries  stopped 
falling.  A  stripped  twig,  freed,  sprang  back  into 
place  with  a  light  brushing  sound.  Silence  again; 
then  a  voice: 

"I  didn't  think  you'd  do  a  thing  like  that." 

Ernie's  hand,  groping  aimlessly  between  his  knees, 
found  a  little  stick.  He  broke  it  in  halves;  then  in 
quarters;  then  in  eighths. 

"Like  what?"  He  threw  the  bits  of  stick  away 
morosely. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  said  Clara  Morton, 
gravely  and  directly.  "I  suppose  you  think  a  girl's 
just  something  to  play  with,  don't  you — like  Ashton 
thought?" 

Ernie  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  her.  Clara's 
eyes  were  on  the  berry-bowl,  in  which  her  little 
fingers  were  stirring  and  pushing  about  the  green 
gooseberries  with  their  tiny  longitudinal  lines. 

"Why,  I — I — "  he  began;  then  paused  help 
lessly;  then  turned  right  around  and  faced  her. 
"Is — is  that  what  you  thought?"  he  exclaimed, 
his  heart  quickening  until  he  could  hear  the  throb 
bing  of  it,  like  a  gallop,  in  both  the  drums  of  his 
ears. 

Clara's  head,  bent  over  the  dish  in  her  lap,  nodded 
in  reply;  then  she  put  her  hands  up  to  her  face  and 
her  shoulders  rose  and  fell  in  a  kind  of  sob. 

"Why,  dearie" — Ernie's  hand  went  out;  then  he 
306 


GOOSEBERRY 

drew  it  back  gingerly,  afraid  now  to  even  touch  her 
— "I — I — I'm  going  to  say  it  this  time,  or  bust,  and 
you  can  take  it  or  leave  it  (I  s'pose  you'll  leave  it) : 
I  love  you  like  I  never  thought  I  could  love  anybody. 
I  loved  you  the  first  day  I  saw  you.  I'm  going  to 
love  you  as  long  as  I  live,  and  you  can't  stop  me. 
If  you  like,  I'll  go  away  now  and  not  bother  you  any 
more.  I  thought  maybe  you — maybe  you  kind  of 
liked  me,  though. " 

Clara  Morton  did  not  move  for  a  moment.  Then 
one  of  her  hands — the  hand  next  Ernie — came  slowly 
away  from  her  face,  lowered  itself  into  her  lap,  paused 
there  a  moment,  then,  very  shyly,  reached  out  tow 
ard  him.  Ernie  Bedford  took  it — not  roughly  this 
time,  but  reverently — and  laid  his  lips  upon  the  tiny 
brown  freckle-spots  that  dotted  the  knuckles. 

As  he  did  so  the  little  mother-soul  of  the  Morton 
farm,  with  a  cherishing  movement  wholly  her  own, 
transferred  her  other  hand,  with  its  small,  blunt- 
pointed,  practical  fingers,  from  her  cheek  to  his  neck, 
and  raised  to  him  the  true-wife  promise  of  her  lips 
and  eyes. 

"You  little  boy  with  big-man  shoulders,"  she 
said,  "kiss  me  now,  if  you  want  to." 

Ernie  Bedford  had  come  to  Islay  a  boy.  He  left 
the  district,  after  his  stay  of  one  short  summer,  a 
"grown-up"  man.  But  this  transition,  important 
as  it  was  in  his  life,  was  less  striking  than  another 
which  made  itself  manifest  to  him  as,  two  hours 
after  parting  with  Clara  Morton  one  late  September 
day,  he  boarded  his  home-going  train. 

307 


THE  ROAD  THAT  LED  HOME 

It  was  then  that  he  became  first  aware  how  the 
central  and  focal  point  of  all  his  world  had  changed. 
He  had  the  sensation  of  one  going,  not  toward,  but 
away  from  home.  The  radial  lines  of  all  roads  led 
now,  not  toward  his  picturesque  home  town  in  the 
valley  of  the  Souris,  but  toward  the  commonplace 
groves  and  knolls  and  plain  locale  of  Islay. 

This  was  so,  and  to  remain  so  until  that  later  day 
when,  after  a  short  and  eventful  second  visit,  Ernest 
Bedford,  M.A.,  professor  of  literature  in  Ridley 
College,  left  Islay  again  for  Oakburn  station  in  a 
two-seated  democrat  which  held  four  people — Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Henry  Nicol  on  the  front  seat,  and  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Ernest  Bedford  on  the  rear  one.  After 
that  the  radial  point  of  the  world  changed  again. 
It  followed  him  to  town,  close  as  his  shadow,  and 
settled  down  permanently  over  the  rooftree  of  a 
little  white  cottage  in  the  suburbs — a  cottage  where 
now,  at  the  time  of  this  writing,  the  table  is  tri-daily 
set  for  three. 


THE   END 


33050 


M27113 


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